


Number One (With a Bullet)

by the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Bandom Big Bang 2018, Biceps, Blow Jobs, Cartel!Pete, Dubious Consent, Fuckbuddies To Lovers, M/M, Mexico, Nice Suits, Sniper!Patrick, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 05:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 53,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16780543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: Patrick sees the world down the barrel of a gun. A crack shot and a cool head, he was destined for success - until a mission gone wrong resulted in devastating losses: his career, his self esteem, his husband. An offer he can't refuse finds him thrown deep into an earthly hell - the world of violent Mexican drug cartels.Pete thinks Patrick is a stuck up gringo. Patrick thinks Pete is an ignorant lackey. The desert makes madmen of them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, my friends, to this car crash. Several months and several more breakdowns in the making, this is the finished article. It was supposed to be short and sweet, I swear - instead, it's long and sour. 
> 
> Thank you so much to [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers) for being part shoulder-to-cry-on, part beta, and part face-slapper for the past few months, I couldn't have done it without you, and a huge thank you and a few hugs to [Das_verlorene_Kind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind) for the magnificent art that tops each chapter! You can also find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16780969), go leave some lovely feedback! 
> 
> I really hope you guys like this - strap yourselves in, it's gonna be a rough ride...

*

“But daddy, I don’t _like_ the onion ones,” Lottie insists for the third time since she emptied her lunchbox over the kitchen table and declared its contents inadequate.

“You liked them yesterday,” Patrick reminds her, “I’ve got the packet to prove it.”

“ _No,”_ she huffs, “I gave them to Kat – and she gave me her fairy cake.”

Patrick scoffs. “Well, when I emptied your lunchbox yesterday, there was no cake case in there.”

“Well that’s ‘cause – “ she starts, suddenly louder, “that’s ‘cause when we finished we swapped the wrappers back ‘cause – ‘cause her mummy is al’gic to onion!”

“She’s allergic to onion? How unfortunate,” Patrick says, rummaging around underneath the sink for the boot polish which _must_ be there, it can’t be anywhere else.

“Can we make fairy cakes, daddy?” Lottie asks, suddenly clinging to Patrick’s arm and sticking her head in the cupboard in front of him.

“Not if you get lost under the sink,” he tells her, the search for boot polish growing more difficult now that there’s a small child in the way.

“But can we? And where do the pipes go, daddy?” She reaches out for the grubby plumbing and Patrick pulls her back before she gets to ask why under the sink is so slimy. “What are you looking for?”

“Polish, for my shoes,” he responds, attempting to manoeuvre her out of his way and failing when she kicks him in the stomach in her attempt to climb further into the cupboard. “Ouch – please, Lot, daddy’s got to find it.”

“Is it this?” she says, holding out a – a tin of black shoe polish. Patrick stares at her.

“Uh – yeah,” he says, taking it from her and hefting her out of the cupboard and into his lap. “How’d you find that so fast?”

“I looked prop’ly. You were just being silly, daddy,” she says matter-of-factly, pushing herself off his lap and toddling back to her decimated lunchbox. “I still don’t like the onion ones.”

Patrick has mostly given up on his own judgement by this point, so he simply stands with a sigh and says, “alright. Fine, which flavour _do_ you like?”

“The red ones,” she replies without a moment’s hesitation. “They don’t have a funny taste.”

“Okay, noted,” Patrick hums as he rummages through the crisp cupboard until he finds a packet of ready salted. “I won’t buy the onion ones in future.”

“No! Kat likes them,” she protests, giggling as he throws the packet at her and rolls his eyes. “Daddy! But can we make cakes?”

“At the weekend, perhaps,”

“With different coloured icing?”

“If you remind me to buy food colouring.”

“And sprinkles?”

“…and sprinkles. Alright, pack your lunch again and shoes on, please, or we’ll be late.” _Again._

She makes a vaguely affirmative noise and begins to roll her orange around the table whilst Patrick desperately brushes at his shoes, rubbing until he can see his face in them instead of the signs of too much frantic running across playgrounds.

_-_

Drop off is chaos as usual. Patrick's not afraid of much, but the parental swarm that surrounds him every morning never ceases to make him squirm. He holds tight to Lottie’s hand, nods half-hearted acknowledgement at those he recognises. He walks fast; he'd rather not get cornered today, he's got places to be.

But fate, quite ordinarily, is not on his side. “Patrick!” Louisa cries when she spots him, her own four-year-old in tow and a larger than life smile spread over her face.

He sighs, turns, gives her a smile of his own. “Louisa,” he replies, ignoring Lottie's whines.

“Well don't you look dapper today,” she exclaims gesturing towards his suit, complete with polished boots. He suddenly regrets the two buttons of his shirt he left undone. “What's the occasion? Wedding? Date? Who's the lucky lady?” she giggles, touching his forearm. “I'm kidding, of course. Where are you off to?”

“Funeral,” Patrick replies shortly, watching her smile drop and the light rush from her eyes.

“Oh – God, I'm so sorry, I didn’t –“

“I'm joking,” he grins, “it's just a business trip, I'm joking.”

“Good God, Patrick,” she exclaims, topped with her signature cackle, “don't do that, you cruel man!” She swats at his chest and he laughs along, politely ignoring the way she leans into him, the way she plays with her hair and bites her lip. She’s been flirting for months now, ever since she somehow learned he’s single, but it’s never gone beyond light touches and Patrick understands her persistence since meeting her veritable arse of a husband. He gives her a wink and a smile, it’s the least he can do.

“Daddy, can I go now?” Lottie whines, tugging on his arm and scrabbling for the bookbag clasped in his hand. “I’m not a _baby.”_

Patrick relents his hold on the bookbag, but catches his daughter’s arm as she attempts to escape. “Hey – you know grandma’s picking you up later, yeah?”

“Yes, did she make cake?”

“I’m not sure, but – sweetie, can daddy have a hug goodbye?” Patrick asks, crouching down and holding out his arms. She looks sceptical. “Please?”

“How long are you gone for?” she pouts, crossing her arms.

“Just one night,” Patrick tells her, “I’ll be back to pick you up tomorrow evening.”

Lottie simply scowls, pushing at his arms where he attempts to wrap them round her. “Don’t want you to go.”

“I’m sorry, baby, but I have to go, I have to work,” he tries, ducking to catch her gaze. “And you like grandma’s, right?”

She scuffs her shoes against the patterned tarmac. “Want _you_ to be there too.”

“I will be there, just – just not tonight. I’m sorry, sweetie. Hey, when I get back we can bake cakes all weekend,” he says, taking her little hand and squeezing it.

She frowns at him for a few tense seconds, then gives him a curt nod. “Okay. With sprinkles?”

“With sprinkles,” he smiles, finally managing to pull her into a hug. He squeezes her tight, reminding himself that it’s only one day, that it’s worth it, that this doesn’t make him a bad father. “Love you,” he says, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “Love you so much.”

“I need to _go,_ daddy,” she says, squirming out from his hold and waddling away. “Bye!”

“Bye, sweetie,” he calls after her, watching her disappear among the crowd of meandering children. He gets to his feet, guilt weighing on his chest.

“She’ll understand, one day,” Louise interjects from beside him, “it’s all for her. You’re supporting your family, don’t feel bad about it.” She gives his arm a squeeze, genuine caring in her eyes.

“Thanks,” he smiles. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” she nods, lying smoothly through her teeth. “They keep me busy.” She gestures towards her two sons, currently wrestling one another over an oddly shaped stone.

He doesn’t press her any further. Pleasantries aside, he’s on a deadline. He says his goodbyes and walks away. As soon as he steps outside the gates, he’s a different man.

-

He doesn’t think as he drives. He leaves the town behind, switching leafy cul-de-sacs for fields of empty land, his foot pushed into the accelerator. The world whips past, and gradually, all company drops away, leaving him invisible, non-existent.

No-one sees him slow, no-one sees him pull to the verge and turn off his engine. He places sunglasses over his face before he gets out, the heat bearing down on him as the day reaches its fullest. His jacket is strewn on the passenger seat as he removes the various cuddly toys from the glove compartment, peels the kitten stickers from the headrests, stows the booster seat in the footwell.

He checks one last time that nothing is watching him as he opens the boot and retrieves the number plates. They’re not fake, not exactly; but there’ll be a rather outraged owner of another black Range Rover if Patrick lands himself with a speeding ticket. David Nelson is his name for the next two days, and he’s got the driving license to prove it. A pale, standard-issue thirty-year-old – there are a million of him across the country.

The screams of the electric screwdriver barely bother him anymore. There was a time when he’d wince, check for passers-by, talk himself out of bottling, but now it’s second nature – automatic. It takes him less than a minute to change both plates and slam the boot shut. He pauses only to turn on the air conditioning before he’s slipping back onto the road, unnoticed.

Driving always seems to give rise to the worst in him. Nothing can quite bring itself to matter when the roads stretch in front of him, the hours dragging by like nails over his skin. Getting caught is the worst possible outcome; he’d rather catch a bullet in his brain than watch his daughter from behind bars, see her grow to loathe him, but out here, stewing in the heat, he wonders if that would really be any different from exactly what he deserves. He’ll never be the man his daughter thinks he is, the man _anyone_ thinks he is; he, as a complete, warts-and-all whole, cannot exist anywhere but out here.

The hours slip by, lush green rushing into flat grey as he joins the ants’ nest of traffic into Wales. His mind wanders towards the radio but his fingers remain clasped to the steering wheel and he sits in steadfast silence. Staying focussed is key; there can be no leisure until home is where he’s headed. Besides, this version of himself has no head for jazz, no appreciation of musicianship. He’s not a father, a husband, a friend - he’s a cold-blooded criminal meant for one thing and one thing alone.

The gun sits snug in the boot of the car, sunk into the floor and out of sight. It seems to hum with bloodlust, a neon sign marking Patrick _guilty._ But Patrick’s no stranger to guilt – it’s innocence that eludes him. He’s soaked with numbness now, has been for the past eighteen months. He’s already done his worst; anything else is just kicks to the face after a shot to the heart.

He scans the road signs carefully, the route branded into his vision after a night spent poring over a map. The service station is under a mile away, and the woman he’s looking for is supposedly wearing a knitted scarf – a ridiculous choice given the heat, but Patrick was in no position to argue over accessories. His fedora sits stoutly on the passenger seat.

It, combined with suit and sunglasses, all of which are a rich black, is perhaps rather conspicuous as he walks into the run-down Little Chef. What it lacks in cleanliness it makes up for in headache-inducing lighting, red tables like bloodstains over Patrick’s vision. Still, business people sit hunched over laptops, slumped in corners, chattering into phones – he’s just another man in a suit.

He’s a little early, so he orders a cup of tea and a ploughman’s, his stomach growling in anticipation. Both arrive before the knitted scarf does. The salad is wilting and the sandwich has seen better days but he tucks in anyway, grateful for a meal made by someone else. He chews slowly, staring out of the window and wondering if it would be so bad if she simply didn’t turn up. He’s had bottlers before.

She isn’t one of them. She wears, as promised, a blue knitted scarf, and a suit not dissimilar to his own; rather too James Bond to be entirely unremarkable. She’s younger than he expected, mid-twenties perhaps, but her glare is one of maturity and endurance. Before he can greet her, she’s perched in the chair opposite him.

“Tomorrow, yes?” she says – impatient, perhaps a little nervous. This isn’t something many do more than once.

Patrick nods, swallows. “Tomorrow. Forty thousand first, though.”

“I _know_ ,” she hisses, “but you’d better do it right. No trace. If it leads back to me, I’ll hand you over.” She’s all anger, spitting sparks across the table. He nods again, like it’s a genuine threat. In actuality, she doesn’t even have his real name.

“No trace,” he repeats. “There’s a reason I charge so much. Forty thousand, remember?”

She huffs, reaches into her bag. He takes another bite of his sandwich, watching her cast her gaze around the room as if anyone gives a shit what they’re doing. A brown paper bag is shoved his way; he takes it, reaches inside and flicks through the bundles of twenties.

“This is twenty thousand,” he says gruffly, pushing the bag back towards her. “Where’s the rest?”

“You’ll get it after,” she states, but he shakes his head.

“No, no. We agreed, forty upfront.”

“Forty in total. Half now, half when you tell me the job’s done. I’ll text you the location,” she says, waving her phone at him. It’s a flip phone, a cheap lump of plastic; Patrick hopes that’s indicative of the fact that she’ll destroy it soon.

He stares at her, at her concrete-coloured eyes and her thin mouth and wonders what drove her to these measures. She screams six-figure salary, a Rolex shimmering on her wrist and a Mont Blanc pen tucked into her pocket. “Forty thousand, upfront, in cash,” he says, slowly as to ensure it a better chance of sinking through her Chanel-painted brain. He sinks his teeth back into the sandwich; he can almost feel her disdain.

“You’ll get your money after you stop his heart,” she seethes. Patrick wonders why on earth she felt the need to spend forty grand killing this guy when that glare alone could burn a hole in his head. Besides, she’d clearly rather throttle him herself. Pursing his lips, Patrick shakes his head.

“I get my money now, or his heart remains intact,” he says, wiping his fingers on a napkin and pushing his plate away. “So, what’s it going to be. Have I wasted my time, or will you pay me what you owe?”

“How do I know you’ll do it right?” she snaps, “how do I know you won’t run off with my money?”

Patrick purses his lips, glances at his watch. “I suppose I’d best be going, then.”

He stands, adjusts his hat, begins to walk away, leaving the paper bag on the table in front of her. He takes five steps before she calls him back.

“Wait,” she says, “I – alright.”

He stops. He hears her rummage in her bag.

“I have the money,” she tells him, her voice a hush among the buzz of the restaurant. Patrick doesn’t smile – he’s learned not to.

He turns, strides back to her and sits down, meeting her sulking, grey-eyed gaze with his sharp blue one. He stares until she puts another bag on the table and slides it to him. “That’s better,” he nods once he’s counted it, placing both bags in his lap.

“I hope you’re as good as you say you are,” she sneers, buttoning her handbag with venomous briskness.

“I’m better,” he replies, ignoring her scoff of disbelief. “Get yourself an alibi, madam – destroy all contact with me as soon as you walk out of here.”

“I didn’t pay you to talk,” she says, her chair screeching against the floor as she stands, shrugging her bag over her shoulder. “No trace.”

Patrick nods, but she’s already turned on her heel. She knows what she wants, he’ll give her that. He’s had some wobblers in the past, men who’d cry and tell Patrick that this is the only way, even when there’s a million. He’s seen that guilt before – in murderers, in terrorists, in himself. But guilt is a shield only for morality. Guilt never stopped a bullet.

The salad tastes as limp as it looks; he resorts to stuffing it all inside the remains of the sandwich just to force himself to eat it by some means. The dressing makes the bread bitter, oily. Patrick eats it anyway.

-

The sun is drooping low overhead as Patrick finally arrives at the hotel. It’s a monster, an insult to the skyline, but there’s solace in the beehive and Patrick hides his car among the hundreds of others. The air is cooler as he steps into it, a light breeze gracing across his face and through his hair. He grabs his bag and his jacket, and makes for the reception.

The doors slide open for him as he walks through them, air conditioning sweeping goose bumps over his skin and sending a shiver across his shoulders. He’s shrugged his jacket back on before he reaches his room.

The bed is soft, clean under his fingertips, as cold and empty as his own bed. He places his case beside it and his boots by the door, flexing his feet in relief and ruffling his hair. The shower seems to beckon him, the TV remote sits smug on the bedside table, an encyclopaedia of takeaway menus stacked next to it. Instead, he retrieves his laptop from his bag, ignores his pyjamas, and sits at the desk in the corner.

He’s been over the information a hundred times before. He knows the golf course better than he knows his own house, he knows his escape route better than the school run. But there may always be complications, always a potential for disaster, always a spot for him waiting on BBC News, a space in a high-security prison.

He stares at maps until his eyes start to burn, thinking and rethinking, marking off all the points at which things could go wrong, all the possible snags, problems, delays. The lead up is always the worst part, the last-minute revisions, the gruelling night’s sleep. There’s a bright rectangle staining the backs of his eyelids as he digs his fingers into his eyes, his skin oily to the touch and his spine crackling as he leans back in the chair. He decides he’s done enough.

The shower is as blissful as he’d built it up to be; he edges the temperature higher every few minutes until the water is almost scalding, casting red over his skin and shrivelling his fingertips. He revels in the fluffy hotel towels, tumble-dried to velvety softness and smelling of something he can’t quite identify but reminds him of the colour pink. His pyjamas seem scratchy in comparison.

He orders a pizza and eats it in bed, TV tuned to a nature documentary, muted. It’s not really the same without Lottie, smearing sauce all over her face and peeling off the cheese to eat later. He winces as a lioness sinks its teeth into the neck of a gazelle.

He can’t relax, not really, not until the job is done and he’s safely back home. Even then, there’s a tenseness about the next few days, the next few phone calls; he’ll jump at police sirens and keep the chain across the front door. His mind buzzes with stats, angles, time limits. He can’t focus on the TV, can’t focus on anything, so in the end, he simply sets his alarm, arranges his pillows and turns off the lights. It’s barely nine-thirty.

-

He’s awake before the shrieks of his phone can rouse him. A pillow is hugged to his chest – an old habit he hasn’t quite managed to shake – and he’s blissfully cool, the air conditioning ruffling his sleep-messed hair and making a sublime change from waking up sweaty and covered in insects. He remembers why exactly he loves hotel nights – and carefully forgets the way his chest feels heavy when he looks across the pillows and sees nothing but empty space beside him. Still, he gets up, throws on some new underwear and yesterday’s suit, and makes his way to the lobby, planning to make excellent use of the all-you-can-eat breakfast and revive himself up with a mug of coffee that is not instant, nor has been dribbled in by a four-year-old.

By the time he’s on the road again, he thinks of nothing but the kill. He’s swapped slacks for khaki trousers, shirt for a navy polo, and fedora for a cap – non-threatening, civilian. The target is due on the course in two hours – he’ll be dead before lunchtime. Patrick’s not nervous, not quite; he’s balanced on a knife edge, but he’s perfectly stable.

Salted air begins to filter through the fans as he nears the coast, trees thinning to plains of sandy grassland and tower blocks swapped for technicolour cottages. It’s a beautiful part of the world – Patrick would consider retiring here, provided he doesn’t end up on a wanted list. Lottie adores the seaside.

He knows the roads, knows how to wind his way around the edges of the course until he finds the dirt path he’s looking for, the quiet route outside the bounds where he can steal away, unnoticed, into the surrounding grasses. He can see the specs of flags, of targets, crawling like beetles across his windscreen. He wonders which is the one he’s here to squash.

He parks, cuts the engine, removes the leather gloves from the pocket of his jacket. They squeak as they stretch over his fingers, a second skin pulled taut across the bones.

A decade ago, the wind that whips around him as he climbs out of the car would strike fear through him, make his hands shake and his brow sweat, but now, he can sense the roll of the breeze, feel the pull of the earth. It’s an intuition, an instinct; some people can sing, or paint, or dance – Patrick can put a bullet in someone’s skull.

He lifts up the floor of his trunk to reveal the fishing case sunk into the lining, dull green and heavy. Removing it with ease, he loops a blanket over his forearm and jams his cap onto his head, the peak tipped low over his sunglasses. He’s a faceless killer.

The weight of the case is familiar and humming with anticipation, sun-warmed fabric sending heat scuttling along his fingers. His nesting spot isn’t hard to find; a particularly grassy hillock rises a short way from his car, providing a clear view straight through the curves of the land and to the tee of a 470-yard par-4. He lays the blanket among the grasses and the case beside it, sinking into the rustling whispers of the landscape.

As he sits, he commits to the quiet. It’s the only thing he’ll hear until he cracks it with a bullet. 

Calculations whir through his head as he removes the gun from its case, screws the suppressor on, carefully snaps the stock into place and sets it on its stand, picturing the curve of the shot he’ll take, the angle of its fall. The weapon sits snug to his shoulder as he lays down behind it, once a common hunting rifle, now a custom-made killing machine. Patrick rather hates how attached to it he’s become.

For a while, he adjusts and readjusts, finding a position into which he can settle. A golfer appears at the tee and Patrick stares through the scope, locking on to the man’s head and imagining him falling to the ground, mathematics whirring through his mind. The target will allegedly be wearing white trousers and an argyle sweater vest – reason enough for Patrick to sink a bullet through his brain. But Patrick’s studied the photos long enough, he’ll know the face when he sees it.

Three groups of golfers come and go. It’s quarter to twelve – Patrick’s beginning to get impatient. There’s a backup plan in the event of a no-show, but he’s never had to resort to a plan B and he’d like to keep it that way. Another attempt would more than double his chances of getting caught.

But there’s another group walking down the fairway, and Patrick catches the flash of white trousers before they disappear behind a knoll. He opens the bolt and places a round into it, sliding it back into place and snapping the lever downwards with a sharp click. After nudging ear plugs into place, his left hand slides to cradle the forestock and his right wraps around the grip. He relaxes into the ground, breathing carefully and letting the buzz of peripheral thoughts disappear from his mind.

The target moves slow, another man with him, bags dragged behind them as they walk. He’s got five minutes left if his friend goes first, three if he doesn’t. The serenity of these last few moments is a strange feeling, one that Patrick’s never experienced without a gun in his hand. The world slows, narrows to the breath rushing through his lungs and the whisper of the wind overhead.

Patrick presses the safety off and drops his cheek to the stock. The scope is his eyes, the barrel is his arm. He and the machine are indistinguishable.

There’s a smile on the target’s face as he bends down to press his tee into the ground – Patrick watches the ease of life as they exchange laughter, keeps his mind carefully empty of the chaos of death. The man straightens up, driver clasped in his hand as he lines up for the shot. Patrick takes a breath, releases it.

Then he pulls the trigger.

The silence shatters, the snap of the shot echoing across the landscape, the recoil caught in Patrick’s shoulder. By the time the hiss of the bullet’s flight reaches him, the target has already fallen to the ground. The clock starts in Patrick’s head.

Keeping low to the ground, he presses the safety back on, picks up the shell, takes down the stand, sinks it all back into the case with hurried hands, closes it softly, quickly, pulls the blanket out from under himself, throws a glance around for fatal onlookers, then pads from his hiding place, slowly across the peak of the hill and pacing towards his car.

Composure is key. Sudden moves will only draw unwanted attention, so he walks as if he belongs, fishing bag slung over his shoulder and strides easily, leisurely, fighting his instinct to run, to slam his foot into the floor once gloved hands close around the steering wheel. He drives carefully, taking his time over the bumps and troughs in the road as if he isn’t listening for sirens, for helicopter blades, as if every muscle in his body isn’t pulled taught with concentration.

But the roads are clear as the sky, and he’s cruising down the motorway within half an hour, breathing easier with each mile put between him and the corpse he left behind. He wonders if the target is missed yet; if he’s just a body in a bag or if there’s a mother weeping for him, children pining for him. Patrick quickly stops wondering.

No sirens follow him. No-one pulls him over, no-one casts so much as a second glance at him as he drives. He’s taken off his hat and glasses, peeled the gloves from his hands. He’s ordinary, he’s safe. Or so he hopes.

His fingers itch to pick up his phone, to tell his daughter that he’s coming home, that he’s avoided yet another chance to get himself locked up – but he can’t. Not quite yet, not until he’s switched his plates back, switched himself back. The kills don’t bother him, not anymore, but the escape does. It makes him acutely aware that he’s committed a crime, taken an innocent life. He won’t let that side of himself bleed over his family.

The sky begins to glow as the roads become narrower, sinking over the trees of his hometown and casting a haze of pink across the landscape. His house looks dark, empty, but after he pulls into the driveway, he drops his hands from the wheel and breathes a sigh of something close to relief. He made it.

-

“Daddy?” is the first thing Patrick hears as he knocks on the front door of his mother’s house, tiny footsteps hammering closer. They stop to scrabble at the lock before the door opens and he’s knocked backwards with the force of a small freight train.

“Hey, sweetie,” he laughs, ruffling Lottie’s hair as she barrels into his legs. He crouches down in front of her, lets her take his hands and toy with them, smiles for the first time in thirty-six hours. “I missed you.”

“ _I_ missed _you,_ ” she grumbles, as if this fact is far more important. “Grandma forgot my bookbag.”

From the doorway, his mother scoffs. “She _left_ her bookbag, it was nothing to do with me.”

Lottie shakes her head at him, and he can’t help but grin. “I hope you haven’t been giving grandma a hard time.”

“ _She’s_ giving _me_ a hard time!” she protests, holding tight to Patrick’s hand as he stands and wanders towards the threshold, “she got the horr’ble sauce for pasta, the one – you know, daddy, the one with green in it?”

“Pesto?”

“Yes, daddy, _pesto,_ it was – ew, the tom’to is better, can we have that tonight?” she insists, tugging on his arm as he tries to greet his mother.

“How did it go?” Patricia asks, a flash of scorn in her eyes. Patrick resists the urge to cower.

“Fine,” he says, “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.” It’s a joke, but his laughter falls upon an unforgiving scowl. He hurries Lottie through to the lounge, hoping she’s packed and ready to go.

But of course she isn’t. Lego lies strewn over the floor and Patrick can only see one school shoe; he’s going to be here a while.

“How was school?” he asks her as she drags him over to the couch, “did you get any homework?”

“Just reading,” Lottie shrugs, “but I did it. The book is stupid. I fin’shed it and it’s silly.”

“Why’s it silly,” he laughs as he sits down, pulling her into his lap. She immediately grabs for his hat and shoves it on her own head, swatting his hands away as he tries to nab it back. “Suits me better,” he shrugs, smiling when she scowls.

“That’s ‘cause it’s a silly hat, and you’re silly. And – and the book is silly ‘cause it’s for babies. And grandma’s silly ‘cause she cooks silly food.”

“Alright, so everything’s silly,” Patrick nods, before lowering his voice. “But go easy on grandma, yeah? She’s doing her best.”

Lottie stares at him for a few seconds, then seems to understand. “Is it ‘cause she’s old?”

Patrick scoffs, flicking his gaze to his rather disgruntled mother. “Uh – no, she’s not old. She just likes different pasta. Now, could you go and find your things?”

Rolling her eyes, Lottie scrambles off his lap. “She _is_ old. And so are you. But you make nice pasta,” she says, then prances off, her dad’s fedora still perched on her head. Patrick smiles after her.

“You must try to control that back-talk,” his mother sighs, “you need to set some boundaries.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Patrick replies, “she’ll go far.”

His mother purses her lips and shakes her head, but Patrick knows she loves her granddaughter almost as much as he does. She sits herself down in her armchair and sighs.

“Patrick,” she says, and he knows that voice.

“It was _fine,_ mum, I know what I’m doing, I –“

“I don’t doubt it,” she responds, brushing short, reddish hair out of her face and smoothing down her blouse. “But I do worry, you know. When’s the next one?”

Patrick shrugs. “I’ll see Harry in the next few days, he’ll let me know if anything crops up.”

“When will you get a real job?” she asks. It’s not accusing, not scornful, just – tinted with something that looks an awful lot like begging. Patrick looks down at his tangled hands.

“Soon, mum,” he fumbles, “it’s just I’m not –“

“ _Not qualified for anything else?_ That’s ridiculous. You’re a smart boy, anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“But I’m _good_ at this, it works, it – “

“It _doesn’t_ work, Patrick!” his mother says; then, her voice sinks to a hush. “You _know_ he wouldn’t want this.”

Patrick stiffens. Even a passing reference to _him_ sends a chill across his skin. “You’ve no idea what he would’ve wanted,” Patrick shoots back, a prickle of moisture stinging his eyes, “he’s not bloody _here,_ is he.”

_And who’s fault is that_ hangs in the air between them, unspoken. Patrick looks away, willing his pulse back to normal. She’s entirely, inescapably right, though; he wouldn’t want this.

“Daddy, I can’t find croc.” Lottie’s voice rings around the room and Patrick wrenches himself back into the moment.

“Alright, sweetie,” he smiles, reassuring in the face of her worry, “let’s go and find him.”

-

With croc safely nestled between, Patrick sits on Lottie’s bed, a picture book clutched in his hands and tiny fingers grabbing at his t-shirt. There’s been no phone calls, no knocks at the door. Patrick daren’t check the news, not yet – for now, he can pretend it didn’t happen, that Lottie spent the night at her grandma’s because she wanted to, rather than because her father was out taking a life. He wonders, sometimes, whether it wouldn’t be a blessing if it blew up in his face. She deserves better than him.

“Do the squeaky voice!” Lottie squawks as he reaches the page where the mole is introduced – he’s seen more of this mole than he has of his own mother in the last few weeks, it’s by far the highlight of his daughter’s evening – and he grins, nods, knows he should prompt her to say _please_ but can’t bear to wipe the smile off her face.

He puts as much effort into the mole as he can muster, imagining a tragic backstory, a chequered past shared with the badger and the hedgehog. Lottie sits beside him, wide-eyed and following the pictures across the page, still clutching his arm. He watches her marvel at the colours and the characters, grateful to be home. The forty thousand is already stashed safe.

She’s got _his_ nose, _his_ hair, _his_ – well, everything. Her eyes are green-brown and distinctly not-Patrick, not a streak of his blond in her wispy curls. He sees more of _him_ in her every day.

“Will I have to go back to grandma’s?” she asks once Patrick’s tucked the blanket around her and nestled her cuddly toys around her pillow.

Patrick debates lying to her, telling her that he’ll never leave her again, making her love him that little bit more just for these few moments. In the end, he simply sighs. “That depends on daddy’s work, sweetie.”

“Can’t papa look after me instead?” she says, unaware of the blade she forces between Patrick’s ribs. “He used to.”

“But papa’s not here anymore,” Patrick replies as gently as he can, just like he has a thousand times before, wishing she’d learn, wishing she’d understand that papa is gone forever. He wishes he didn’t understand.

“Will I get a mummy? Kat and Bella and Alice have mummies.”

He breathes a laugh, brushes a flutter of hair out of her face. “No, sweetie. It’s just me and grandma. Some people have mummies _and_ daddies, but – you had two daddies, and now you’ve got just one.”

“Will I get another daddy?” she says, her fingers clutching at his hand.

Patrick shakes his head. “No. Daddy loved papa,” – daddy _still_ loves papa – “and – well, he’s gone. It’s just me, I’m afraid.”

She nods thoughtfully, considering him where he’s knelt by her bed. “You could love another person.”

“No,” he tells her, getting to his feet. “No, I just love you.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Goodnight, sweetie.”

-

Wednesday morning brings clear skies and a hosepipe ban, much to the dismay of Patrick’s scorched front lawn. He sighs at it as he helps Lottie into the car, tells himself he’ll dig the watering can out of the garage later today and attempt to revive it.

“Good trip?” Louisa asks, having barrelled towards him in the playground with her two boys in tow.

It takes Patrick a few seconds to think what she’s referring to before he remembers his lie. “Oh – yes, very good.”

“Remind me, Patrick what is it you do?” she says, looking him up and down like he’s got _contract killer_ tattooed somewhere on his body.

“Web design,” he says smoothly, resisting the urge to cower from her searching gaze. “It was just a conference – boring stuff, really.”

“Well, you looked – very handsome in your suit, I must say, I – I thought James Bond had walked onto the school grounds!” she laughs, but there’s something different about her tone, something nervous, forced. He smiles at her, tinged with confusion.

“I don’t know about that,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. When he catches her eyes, there’s a strange look in them.

“Listen, Patrick, I – “ she looks around, lowers her voice, and a weight drops into Patrick’s stomach. She must have seen something, maybe she suspects him, maybe she knows he’s lying. “I just wondered if – if you’d like to – well, I’ve got a voucher for the new Italian place in town and I wondered if you’d perhaps like to – to give it a try? With – with me?”

_Ah,_ Patrick thinks, his breath of relief chased with a rush of blood to his face. All possible answers seem to flee his mind. “I – uh, I’m sorry, but – I, uh,” he hates saying it, every time, he _hates_ exposing a part of himself that’s too raw to be prodded at. He looks down at his shoes. He thinks he sees a smear of raspberry jam. “I’m gay,” he says to the floor, his cheeks in flames. The look on her face suggests his dignity isn’t in the greatest shape either.

“Oh,” is all she seems capable of saying, her lipstick-coated mouth forming not-quite words at him. “I – oh. Oh God, Patrick, I’m – I’m so sorry, I had no idea, I mean you don’t _look_ – you know, I just thought – I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, I – I’m flattered, of course, but – “

“No! No, I’m embarrassed that I even – I just – you’re so – I’m sorry,” she babbles, looking about as humiliated as he feels.

"It's fine, I'm sorry I have to turn you down, I don't mean to be rude -"

"No, don't apologise, you're not rude at all, I should've - I would've - sorry," she finishes, looking up and across the playground, carefully avoiding his searching gaze. He looks away, the silence hanging between them, painfully obvious and resolutely unmoving. That's another friend he's lost to his sexuality.

He tries to think of something, anything to say, but each intake of breath is stolen away by the awkward atmosphere and his cheeks simply burn brighter. It was easier when he had someone to say it with, a lover whose hand he could squeeze, whose smile could fuel the words. Back then, it didn't seem so shameful; he was proud to introduce his husband, to kiss him on the cheek on the doorstep, to feel an arm around his waist and a nose pressed to his hair and lean into both like they could carry him for the rest of his life. They couldn't.

"Daddy! Did you pack Bumblebee for show and tell?" Lottie suddenly shrieks at him, tugging at his shirt and patting his stomach insistently. "Daddy!"

"Yes, sweetie, Bumblebee's here," he replies, patting the bookbag in his hand and offering it to her. She grabs it from him and peers inside. "Hey! Don't snatch."

She frowns like she doesn't at all comprehend what he's asking, then rubs at her face with Bumblebee and runs off, bookbag in hand. "Bye, daddy!" she shouts, barely looking back. Patrick waves to her; she doesn't see.

He watches her as she drifts away, wondering how long it'll be before she no longer needs him. He's not sure what he'll do when that day comes.

"Patrick." Louisa, miraculously, is still beside him. "Look, if you still wanted to - not as, well, a _date,_ of course, but just as friends, but if you'd like to go out at some point, I'd still - I'd still want to do that. I could have Lottie for an evening if you need a break, or - or we could go to that restaurant, if you wanted, I don't mind. I'd love to get to know you - I'd like to be friends."

It's awkward and childlike, but Patrick's smile is genuine as he looks at her. He nods, thanks her, finally gains a contact who doesn't want someone killed. Not that he wouldn't happily eliminate her husband if she asked. If he doesn't think about Lottie, he can almost kid himself he's in a good mood.

He thinks about calling her as he pulls into his driveway, perhaps chatting over some ironing like a civilised suburban, reintroducing himself to adult conversation with someone who isn't his own mother. He's halfway to the door, mind made up and phone in hand when fingers snake around his throat.

When he cries out, it's too late; the needle has already been slipped into his neck, the chemical spreading through his veins as he struggles against arms at his waist, arms around his elbows, arms everywhere but his line of sight. He catches a flash of tanned wrist and the cuff of navy blue shirt. When something cool and blunt presses into his side, he knows exactly what it is. He tries to tell them not to shoot, but a voice is already whispering in his ear.

"Stop struggling. Stop," it growls, painfully familiar and igniting a spark of hatred in Patrick's chest. But his limbs grow weak and his will follows; in the end, he simply releases his hold on his senses and lets his body collapse.

-

“Vaughn.”

Patrick blinks, white lights clouding his vision and the buzz of electricity ringing in his ears.

“Vaughn.”

Patrick's eyes won't adjust; it's too bright, too blurred, too much. He squeezes them shut, flees back to the darkness to avoid facing whoever that voice belongs to. There's cold under his fingers as he searches with them, clasping at the arms of a chair and holding on for dear life as the world spins around him.

"Vaughn, for God's sake, wake up."

Patrick shakes his head, blindly lifting a heavy hand to his face and scrubbing at his eyes, before the side of his skull explodes with pain and the world comes rushing back to him.

"Vaughn!" a man with a moustache shouts, his hand squeezing Patrick's jaw and tilting it towards him. "Good God, man. About bloody time."

The room around Patrick is large and pine scented, books lining the walls and a large desk at its centre, illuminated by a window that stings Patrick's eyes. Fabric sags underneath him; he's been laid out on a sofa, his head propped up by several cushions. He tries to sit himself upright, but the world tilts sickeningly around him and his head throbs in protest. He relaxes back into the couch, blinks until his vision steadies itself. He rather hates that he knows exactly where he is.

"Hurley?" he croaks, twisting to look at the spindly, suited man perched in a puffy armchair opposite him.

"You remember me? How very flattering," Hurley says dryly. "Tea?"

Patrick barely has time to process the question before a cup and saucer is shoved into his hands; he sits up to steady it and throws the room upside-down, bile filling his throat. He leans forward, hunches himself over the tea, the china rattling in his hands. "God, what the hell did you give me?"

Hurley remains quiet, but the slight smile on his face suggests he's enjoying the show greatly. He looks towards the desk; a figure lingers by the window. "Drink your tea," he says eventually.

It's too hot to quite be comfortable as it slips down Patrick's throat, but it seems to stabilise his buzzing nerves, warming his belly and his fingertips. He doesn't ask what he's doing back here; he'd rather prolong his blissful ignorance for as long as possible.

"Vaughn," the figure says, moving away from the window and into full colour. Patrick stares; he didn't think he'd see Braithwaite ever again. "It's been a while. How have you been?"

Patrick suspects she knows precisely how he's been, but he nods anyway. "Surviving," he says, while it's still true.

"Excellent," she says, "you certainly seem to have found yourself a hobby."

With a grimace, Patrick takes another gulp of tea. So _that's_ what this is about. "My last job left me with nothing. It was the only way I could keep afloat."

Hurley snorts. "I do believe you were very well compensated."

Patrick glares at him. "Yes; I think your exact words were 'be grateful you're not dead'."

"You ignored a direct order, Vaughn, you ruined a perfectly functional operation, you -"

"A hostage situation is never _perfectly functional,_ I made a _judgement_ call and I -"

"Gentlemen!" Braithwaite snaps, sitting herself down behind the desk. "What happened was - regrettable, but we have more pressing matters to discuss."

Patrick's fingers are tight around the teacup, his knuckles bleached white and his jaw taut with anger. "Not with him here."

"Hurley is the senior officer of this operation, he is required to be here," she replies, and Hurley shoots him a smug glance.

"I took over from you, actually," he smiles, "seeing as you made such a spectacular cock up of things."

"I was doing my _job_ , I -"  
  
"Does your husband think that too? Oh - wait..."  
  
Patrick freezes. He locks his gaze to Hurley's, his blood running hot and fast and his chest constricted with rage. "Say that again," he growls, placing the cup and saucer on the mahogany table top.  
  
Hurley sits forward in his chair, his hands placed on his knees. "Does your _husband_ -"  
  
With a roar of fury, Patrick pounces, his hands hungry for Hurley's throat, for the cracking of bone underneath them. But as he stands, the room lurches and takes his stomach with it, his vision clouding and his balance hurled out of the window. He falls as quickly as he rose, the sofa catching him and gravity pinning him in place. Hurley laughs.  
  
"Well, Vaughn, if you've quite finished embarrassing yourself, we can discuss why you're here," Hurley drawls, an amused quirk in his mouth as he watches Patrick struggle to sit upright. Patrick loathes him.  
  
"We're running an operation in Mexico alongside the Centro de Investigación. There's a cartel in Tijuana that's coming to the fore, and they're a few gunshots away from all-out war with the Sinaloa cartel. García ordered a hit on a rival leader and it's all become rather messy. Tijuana are seeking revenge, and our intelligence has informed us that they are hiring a hitman. In fact - our intelligence suggests that they want you," Braithwaite says, peering at him from over her spectacles.  
  
"I'm out of the business," Patrick says, folding his arms.  
  
"We both know that's not true. Did you really think that you could carry out some of the most high-profile hits of the decade and not gain a reputation? You're the most advanced killer in the Western hemisphere, and they want to get you before García does."  
  
"When you say _get me,_ what exactly do you mean?" Patrick asks, rather dreading the answer.  
  
"They're hiring you to kill García. Well - we're hiring you on their behalf. Not that they know that, of course. And you're going to do it - and then you're going to turn on them. An undercover mission, if you will."  
  
Patrick all but laughs. "So - let me get this straight. You want me to go to Mexico, infiltrate a drug cartel, kill their rivals and then kill them? Is there something in the tea?"  
  
"No, that's correct," Braithwaite says, shuffling her papers. "We'll send you the details in full. I won't lie to you, Patrick, this will be dangerous, but -"  
  
"Whoa, whoa," Patrick interrupts, "I'm not doing this. Thank you very much for absolutely nothing, but I think I'll pass."  
  
Hurley shakes his head. "I'm so sorry, were you under the impression that you had a choice?"

Patrick stares. "Wh - you can't _force_ me," he says, looking for some sign on their faces that this is all some elaborate ruse.

"Yes, we can," Hurley says slowly, each word syrup-sweet and dripping from his curled lips. "Because, Vaughn - if we can't send you to Mexico, we'll send you to prison."

"But - I can't just - you can't be serious," Patrick says, exasperated and more panicked than he'd like to admit. "This is _suicide."_

"That's a risk we're willing to take." Hurley sits back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. Patrick would give most of his savings to be allowed to kill him.

"You'll be well compensated for your troubles, of course," Braithwaite informs him, "and in the event of your death, that compensation will be passed on to your loved ones."

Patrick huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head. "Trust me, _no_ amount of money could make me -"

"One point two million dollars," she interrupts. "Per month."

He chokes on his own intake of breath. He'd never have to work again. Lottie would be set for life. They could do anything, go anywhere.

"Have we persuaded you, Vaughn?"

"Well, I - I don't - uh, I'd need some time to think it over," Patrick stumbles, struggling to get his head around that kind of money. "How long would I be there?"

"As long as it takes for the job to be done. A couple of months, at least. You'll be briefed when you arrive - the Centro de Investigación will take you through the finer details. A cab will be waiting for you at the airport."

"No, no - wait a second," Patrick sighs, running a hand through his hair, "I've never worked a case like this, I have no knowledge of the drug industry, I -"

"That won't be an issue. You're a hitman, not a drug dealer, the cartel knows that."

"But the risk involved must be -"

"Astronomical, yes," Hurley interjects, a nasty little glint in his beetle eyes, "in fact, your chances of making it back alive are - rather dire, I'm afraid. And what a loss it will be."

"We can't ensure your safety, Vaughn. But if you pull this off, you'll take down two of the most dangerous organisations on the planet. You were a skilled agent; you could really make a difference here."

It's bullshit, all bullshit to make him feel somewhat valued by these people. They don't want him - they want his hands, his eyes, his bullets. "I'll think about it," he says, "I'll look over the brief."

Hurley chuckles. "Oh, no, Vaughn. Your flight leaves tonight. We'll give you one hour to collect your belongings."

Patrick's chest constricts as he looks into Hurley's smug smile. "What?! No! I can't leave _now,_ I have a - a life, I have a daughter, you _know_ that, I have to pick her up from school in - in -" he glances at his watch, but the numbers blur into shapelessness, "soon, I can't just _leave_ her, I've no-one to look after her!"

"Oh, well I'm sure there's no shortage of families who'd just _love_ a beautiful little daughter of their own," Hurley speculates. Patrick can only stare in horror.

"You can't - I can't do this, I need more time, you have to give me more time!"

Hurley simply shakes his head. "One hour. One hour, or the next place you'll wake up will be a prison cell. What would your daughter think if she knew her daddy was a murderer, eh? Surely, you wouldn't want to be responsible for the absence of _both_ her fathers, would you, Vaughn?"

"Stop it!" Patrick cries, "you can't do this, I'm not some - puppet, I - I - " he crumbles, rubbing at his brow and taking a deep breath. "Let me say goodbye to her."

"Not a chance, Vaughn," Hurley snarls, "we're not running errands for you, we -"

"You can say goodbye," Braithwaite interrupts, "you're free to use the hour as you please. We've already obtained your necessary documents, we've done a blood test - your gun is being shipped as we speak. You may tell your mother where you are going, but she is the only one who is to know."

Patrick nods, curls his fingers into fists to stop them shaking. At least he isn't crying like the last time. "Can you guarantee the safety of my family," he asks.

"Yes," she says, but she said that last time, and the answer turned out to be irrevocably and utterly _no._ "One of the cartel's distributor's has a small foothold in London, but we have them under surveillance. The danger will be far removed from your loved ones."

"Alright," Patrick says, a semblance of autonomy, "I'll do it."

"Excellent," Braithwaite says, something like a smile gracing her stern face. "We'll escort you the the car."

"One hour," Hurley reminds him. "Chop chop."

-

Patrick bursts through his own front door and takes the stairs two at a time, his mind racing with things he mustn’t forget, things he needs to tell his mother, his daughter. He grabs a suitcase and a kit bag and opens them both wide on his bedroom floor, trying to both think straight and act fast.

His wardrobe consists mostly of various styles of suit, a few pairs of identical black jeans and a selection of hats. He looks down at himself; he's wearing a white shirt and beige shorts, perfect for school pickup but not so appropriate for flying into the heart of a drug war. He shoves a pair of suit pants and a jacket into his hand luggage, followed closely by his laptop, a comb and shoes that aren't Converse.

The rest is easy. He guts his wardrobe, his chest of drawers, grabs anything and everything from the bathroom and packs it as neatly as his haphazard hands will allow. There's a picture of him and Will and Lottie sitting on his bedside table - he stares at it for a moment, wonders if he should take it, as a good luck charm, as a comfort. But in the end, it's just a reminder of what he's lost, what he stands to lose. He leaves it.

Hurrying into Lottie's room, he packs a bag for her, struggling to remember which toys she likes best, which books are her favourite. He ends up packing as much as he can fit into two suitcases, his mind suddenly wiped blank of all fatherly knowledge when faced with a deadline and a black van sitting in his driveway.

Eventually, he's hefted all the cases down the stairs, and stands in his lounge, looking around desperately for anything he may have forgotten. His eyes slide to the skirting board underneath the kitchen cabinets.

He doesn't count the money as he grabs for it, squinting through the dust until he finds the squat little bundles. Ten thousand should be enough, he's sure - perhaps twenty for good measure. He tucks it all into the top of Lottie’s suitcase.

"You done yet?" Schwartz shouts from outside.

"Yes," Patrick replies, "yes - I'm coming." He replaces the loose board carefully, then stumbles back towards the suitcases.

"That's a lot of bags," Schwartz tells him as she helps him shove them into the back of the van. "High maintenance, are we?"

"They're for my daughter," Patrick hisses, "she's staying with her mother, thanks to you. Now, head for the main road - we've two more stops to make," he orders, unused to authority since leaving MI6. he checks his watch - forty minutes to go.

"What in God's name is going on, Patrick?" is the first thing his mother says as Patrick pants on the doorstep, flanked with suitcases, the van looming behind him. Patrick resists the urge to simply hug her and never let go.

"Mum - can you - I need you to - could you look after Lottie?" he asks, sweat beading on his brow as his watch seems to tick louder with each passing second.

"What? Patrick, what's happened?" she presses, peering at the armed officers in the front of the van.

"I'm going to Mexico," he blurts.

"You're - going to Mexico?" she repeats, her face blank yet still somehow horror-filled. "Why? When? _Now?!"_

"Yes, now," Patrick nods, "it's for - work."

"It's - you're leaving us? _Again?"_ she exclaims, incredulous. "What about your daughter, Patrick?! Is your job more important than her?"

"No - no of course not, it's just -"

"You're a father before you're a killer, Patrick," she says, and Patrick feels the words burn down to his core.

"But - mum, the money is - we'll be set for life. If I do this, mum, I'll never have to leave you again."

"You shouldn't be leaving _now,"_ she cries, her light eyes shining with tears Patrick hopes won't fall. "You can't keep doing this, Patrick!"

"I know, and I'm sorry, I just - I have to go, mum, I have to."

"How long?" she asks, her voice wavering with barely-concealed upset.

Patrick can only sigh. "I - don't know. This one's - different. A couple of months."

" _Months?!"_ she all but shouts, "you’re just - leaving? Just like that? God, Patrick, are you that selfish?”

“I’m sorry,” is all he’s able to say, “I’m just - sorry. But please, mum, can you look after her?”

“It doesn’t seem like I have a choice,” she snaps, “I don’t believe you, Patrick, of all the irresponsible things you’ve done, _this_ is the -”

“Please, mum,” he says softly, trying to convey the sheer panic coursing through him with his eyes alone.

“Patrick, what’s going on,” she whispers, “who are those people?”

“They - it doesn’t matter.”

“Is this dangerous?”

“No, mum, I’ll be fine,” he tells her, “it’ll be fine. I’ve packed up Lottie’s things, but you’ve got a key, right? I’ve probably forgotten something, just walk right in if you need to.”

“Of course, Patrick, but - is everything okay?”

He nods, glances back towards the van. The driver’s already staring at him. “Yeah. It’s fine, I’m - fine. I have to go. Like, now. I’m sorry,” he says, beginning to back away.

“But, Patrick -”

“Tell Lottie daddy loves her,” he calls as he gets into the van. An agent slams the door behind him.

-

The school playground is eerily still as Patrick jogs across the heated tarmac, headed for the reception. He slows as he enters the building, a rush of cool air engulfing him and hopefully draining some of the frantic red from his cheeks. The receptionist looks at him curiously, placing her pen down and folding her arms across the desk.

"Hey," Patrick breathes, wiping at his sweat-slick hair, "I'm Charlotte Stump's father, could I speak to her for a few minutes?"

She stares at him for a few seconds, and he shifts self-consciously. "Charlotte Stump? Would you like me to pass on a message?"

"No, no - I really need to see her," he says, his heart still beating in his ears. "Please - it's important."

"She's in a lesson right now - what is it you need to tell her?"

"I really do need to speak to her," he pleads, "it's - personal stuff. Family stuff."

"I see. Alright, I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," he sighs, checking his watch. Twenty minutes left.

He collapses into one of the padded waiting area chairs and tries to relax himself by degrees; he can't panic Lottie, he must be calm, collected, a responsible authority figure rather than a frantic, walking mid-life crisis. He'll just tell her a doctored version of the truth - daddy has to work. Has to leave. Has to run away.

By the time a teacher appears down the hall with a four-year-old in tow, Patrick's mind has somewhat cooled, the words waiting on his tongue like cartridges in the chamber of a gun.

"Daddy? What are you doing here?" is the first thing Lottie says, her dark eyebrows pulled into a suspicious frown. He suspects she's already figured him out.

"Hello, Mr. Stump," Mrs. Winters, the teaching assistant says, a friendly enough smile on her face but her eyes not lacking a certain worry. The last time Lottie was pulled out of class, it was to inform her that her father had been shot dead.

"I'm so sorry," he stammers, standing up and bowing his head slightly, "I just need to - to speak to Lottie in person. Sweetie, could you come and sit down with daddy?"

"Okay," she says slowly, walking towards him and perching on the edge of a squashy chair.

"Uh - so how's school been today?" he asks, just to hear her voice a little more.

She doesn't buy it. "Fine," she shrugs, "why are you here?"

"Good, that's good," he tries to smile. He takes a breath, bites his lip, trigger finger wavering. "I just came to tell you that - that grandma will be picking you up today."

Lottie groans, stomps her little foot. "I _just went_ to grandma's! Don't wanna go again!"

"I'm sorry, sweetie, I -"

"Why won't _you_ pick me up?"

Patrick sighs, taking hold of her hands and stroking careful thumbs over them. "Daddy's got to go away," he says finally, braced for the flood of anguish in his daughter's eyes. "For work."

She starts to struggle in his grasp. "But you just came back! That's not fair! You promised we'd make cakes!"

"I know, sweetie, and I'm so sorry -"

"You can't break promises!" she cries, and Patrick can feel both the receptionist's and the teacher's eyes on him. "You _promised,_ daddy!"

"I'm so sorry, we can bake when I get back," he tries, attempting to catch her distraught gaze. She's looking anywhere but him.

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know, sweetie, in a month or two -"

"A _month?!"_ she yells, a spitting image of her grandma. "But that's the whole entire summer! You can't leave!"

"I have to, but - grandma will bake with you, you'll have a great summer with her," he says, as gently as he can.

"I don't _want_ to bake with grandma!" she says, punctuating the sentence with a slap to Patrick's forearm.

"Hey, don't hit," he scolds, but there's no force behind the words and she simply bats at him again. Twelve minutes. "Listen, sweetie, could you give daddy a hug? I'm gonna miss you so much."

"No!" she shouts, "I hate you!"

He tells himself it's not true, that she's just angry. "That's not very nice, Lottie, you -"

"I liked papa better! Why couldn't _you_ have died!"

It hits Patrick square in the chest. His response dies on his tongue and the breath rushes from his lungs. His grip on her wrist slips and she snatches it away, running back down the corridor with the teacher hot on her heels.

The receptionist's eyes follow him as he stands, strides in Lottie's direction. He can't leave it like that, if he could only wait a few minutes for her to calm down -

"Mr Stump, I think it's best if you leave," the receptionist says, gesturing towards the double doors.

"But if I could just -"

"Mr Stump," she warns, and with a last look in his daughter's direction, he nods.

There's shame boiling deep in his chest as he walks back out into the heat, a blush in his cheeks that isn't just a result of exertion. Perhaps it's best that he's headed on a suicide mission; Lottie would clearly prosper better without him. He tells himself she didn't mean it, that she was simply lashing out as kids do, aiming for Patrick's sorest spot, but the truth of it beats down on him, as oppressive as the heat - he _should_ have died instead of Will.

"You've got six minutes to spare," Schwartz informs him as he climbs back into the van, dejected. The father in him is close to tears; the assassin in him itches to take over. Patrick is shoved to one side as Vaughn grabs the wheel.

"Just take me to the airport," he growls, his gaze locked on the road ahead.

He's done it countless times in the past year - he no longer sweats as he walks through customs, no longer fidgets as he waits for his bags. Besides, he's an agent again - he can quite literally get away with murder.

He changes in the clinical light of the Heathrow bathrooms, shrugging off all evidence of fatherhood and replacing it with a skin of freshly laundered cashmere-blend. They've given him a brand new set of papers that proudly declare _Diplomatic Courier_ , concealing his last name, just as they used to - it's been nearly two years since he's been Vaughn, and although he hasn't missed him, he does rather like the business class seats, the offerings of champagne and cashews and strangely hot towels as he settles by the window on the 18:25 flight to San José del Cabo.

As the lights go down, though, sleep is not an option. The glare of his laptop strains his eyes in the darkness, the words swimming together as the hours drag on. He hadn't had time to consider the difficulty of what they're asking him to do - the document tells him he must ensure the death of the Tijuana cartel leader as soon as possible after he's taken out García, in order to avoid _being disposed of,_ as it's so elegantly put. He hears that particular line in Hurley's drawl.

They recommend and speculate, project and schedule, but Patrick knows all too well that their ideas are never what plays out. The real world has a habit of throwing in unexpected obstacles, seemingly specifically designed to disrupt the plans of governments. They talk about back up, about protection and security, but Patrick has worked with them long enough to know that he's on his own.

In the end, he gives up, his eyes drooping and his mind wandering. Through the window, he can see nothing but darkness.

-

The heat of the Mexican sun is entirely new. It dries his lungs from the inside out, restricts his movements like he's walking through treacle. The roads shiver in front of him, shaking shoulders under the weight of the day. Moisture pools in the canyons of his hands, mists over his face, beads in his hairline like tears sick of waiting. In the minutes he waits for the cab, the country seems to swallow him whole, the rush of traffic sweeping over him and dousing him in heat-soaked colour.  
  
His driver gives him a strange look when Patrick stutters, "Soy - soy Vaughn, ¿me llevarás a - l'estación de policía?", his mouth twitching up into a mocking smile.  
  
"I speak English. Don't worry," he says, and Patrick feels his cheeks heat but nods with relief all the same. "We are going to the station, yes. May I take your - bag?" he gestures to the large metal box held awkwardly in Patrick's grip.  
  
"Uh - yes, thank you - gracias," he says, handing over the box and hefting his suitcase in the the trunk alongside it. He wonders if the driver is in on it.  
  
"You transferring here? Because, it's not easy job," he says, opening the door for Patrick before stepping inside the car himself. He's not privy to it, then. "Especially for a man like you - eres pequeño," he smiles, "a small man."  
  
Patrick laughs at that, for the first time in many hours. "Indeed. Five foot four, the last time I checked." His height has never been a point of insecurity - he always rather liked how much easier it was to hurl himself around rooftops. Besides, he's that much less of a target.  
  
"I mean no disrespect," the driver says, "my brother was a cop - biggest guy you'll ever see - still got put into the hospital. Nasty game - not all people like cops."  
  
Patrick isn't sure what to say to that except _don't worry, I've killed cops too_ , so he simply nods, stares out of the tinted window at the yellowing landscape with heavy eyes. He's been awake for nearly thirty hours. He desperately hopes the sergeant doesn't expect a demonstration of his supposed _skills_ .  
  
The station is an oddly shaped building, the cream paint greying like an ageing head of hair. As he submerges himself in the heat once again, he feels the exhaustion hit him like an egg to the forehead, slipping over his eyes and frying on his cheeks. He thinks of home, of passing out on the sofa with Lottie curled next to him, of _Lottie_ , of what he's been taken away from. But by the time he's stumbled towards the trunk to help the driver with his bags, he's convinced himself it's an escape rather than a kidnapping.  
  
He keeps his jacket on, partially out of spite, but mostly because he'd rather not greet his employer with pit stains. The driver claps him on the shoulder and grins encouragingly.  
  
"Good luck," he says, "don't get shot, my friend."  
  
"I'll try not to," Patrick replies with a weary smile, his patience for jokes wearing thin. He avoids the idea that the man may not be joking at all.  
  
The blast of cool air as he enters the building breathes new life into him - he takes in a lungful of it, hoisting his chin up and his spine straight. He's a professional, this is right in the centre of his comfort zone.  
  
But he's no longer so sure as he's led into the department and the eyes of several offices follow him avidly, exchanging looks and whispering behind the hands. They needn't whisper - he barely understands basic Spanish. This fact is very obvious.  
  
He's identified, photographed, made to sign all sorts of documents he knows he should read but doesn't have the energy. Only then is he permitted to see the boss.  
  
"Mr. Vaughn," the sergeant says as she opens the door to her office. "You've finally arrived."  
  
Patrick feels a curl of tired anger in his gut, but pushes it away with a smile and as firm a handshake as he can manage. "Good to meet you, Sergeant Guitiérrez. And - I don't believe you were mentioned in the notes?" He looks towards the other woman in the room, who grasps his hand tightly and stares through to his soul with deep brown eyes.  
  
"I'm Special Agent Rivera, I'm from the Centro de Investigación y Securidad Nacional. Mexico's MI6. We're overseeing the operation in Tijuana."  
  
He nods, vaguely remembering her name now that he thinks of it. "Have they passed the same information on to you?"  
  
"It is our information," she says sternly. "They are not a part of this. Although I suspect they insisted they were. As far as we are concerned, you are in our service. You will follow our orders and will take payment from us. Please, sit down."  
  
Patrick does so neatly and without delay. He decides that talking, if unnecessary, is ill-advised.  
  
"Now, Vaughn," says the sergeant, "this is not how we usually do things. We operate with our own highly trained field agents. We would much sooner use one of them. But, since you were asked for by name, we have decided to make an exception."  
  
"You have an impressive resume. We expect you to live up to it," the agent tells him. Her eyes say it's a threat. He nods quickly.  
  
"They wouldn't have asked for me if I wasn't one of the best," Patrick says. It's hardly a brag - he wishes it was. Of all the things to be the best at.  
  
The sergeant nods. "I don't doubt it. But you must understand that this is not a typical mission. We are hiring you to do a job. As are they. You do their job, and then you do ours. How much do you know about the drug trade, Mr. Vaughn?"  
  
"I - uh, I've not had a job that directly involves it," he says, "the notes didn't contain a great deal of information."  
  
"Good," Rivera snaps, "we don't want you to know any more than is absolutely necessary. They are expecting you as you are. You will do as they say until you kill García - then we will inform you what to do next."  
  
"If they ask you to kill a civilian, you will do it. If they ask you to kill a child, you will do it. You must gain their trust by any means necessary."  
  
"What do they know about me?" Patrick asks.  
  
"They know you will do their job and do it well. They don't know what you look like, but they know your reputation. We have been posing as your associates. You have built up a name for yourself on the black market," Guitiérrez says. Patrick can't find it within himself even to fake enthusiasm.  
  
He manages to focus for the majority of the meeting - it becomes inescapably clear that if his cover is blown, he will be killed, if not by the cartel, by the Centro de Investigación themselves. He is disposable. His inclusion in this operation is a generosity. Patrick wishes he was sleeping.  
  
"There is a cab waiting outside to take you to the airport. You will meet Sánchez Arellano's underlings at this address," the sergeant hands him a slip of card and a weighted paper bag, "and use this phone to communicate with him. They will contact you with their exact whereabouts and the time of your introduction. We have provided you with a credit card, a fake bank account, and fifteen thousand pesos in cash."

He slides the phone out of the envelope and turns it over in his hands. The fact that it doesn’t contain his mother’s number makes him feel as if he’s been cast out to sea.

“We have input all the contact details you will need. Diéguez is the man you will be meeting.”

Patrick nods. Rivera gestures towards the door - this is all he gets.

"We won't be in contact," they tell him as he stands. "And I recommend that you delete any and all files relating to this. We will send you the relevant information when the time is right." In short, he's on his own.

  
The cab driver is different, this time. He's quiet, he simply stares ahead at the road as they glide through the streets. Patrick fights the haze of sleep with every ounce of strength he can muster - he'll get coffee at the airport, coffee will rescue him from this blurred nightmare world, his head a ten-tonne weight against the window.  
  
He looks through the phone to keep his mind awake; the texts they've sent are stunted, to the point. The last one states that he's in the country, and the number of his connecting flight. They're going to pick him up from the airport. The thought of holding another extended conversation makes him want to cry.  
  
The coffee is sharp on his tongue, too hot down his cracked earth throat, but he gulps at it anyway, swiping foam from his lips and drought from his eyes. He doesn't realise he's drifted off until the speakers blare at him, announcing that the gate is boarding. He staggers from his seat and into the aircraft.  
  
He manages to stay conscious for the flight; he stares out at Sierra de la Giganta and the Vizcaíno Desert, the landscape unfamiliar yet utterly beautiful. Lottie would love it.  
  
The coffee keeps his eyes from drooping, but not his mind from drifting - it takes him several minutes to notice that people are retrieving their bags and filing down the aisles.  
  
He keeps his gun tight to his side as he strides through the airport with false purpose - he has no idea who he might be looking for. He walks out into the heat again, doing his best impression of a lost child, the sun high and blinding in the sky.  
  
"Vaughn?" someone behind him growls, and a hand is clapped to his shoulder. He whips round, telling himself he'd knock them out if he weren't so exhausted, but instead just staring, wide-eyed, idiotic. Two men stare back.  
  
"Yes - uh, sí," he tries, and the man closest to him nods, shoves him forwards and points to a red sports car sitting obnoxiously in the taxi rank. The man is tall, round-faced, dark haired, dark eyed.  
  
"Te llevamos a tu casa," he says, and Patrick thinks that means he's being escorted to a house. "¿No hablas español?"  
  
"Solo un poco," Patrick tries, but the man simply rolls his eyes and looks at the other, shorter man, who walks on Patrick's other side. They snap at each other in Spanish for a few moments, and Patrick is far too tired to try to follow any of it. He definitely hears the word _gringo_ , though.  
  
"He says he likes you," the other man grins, pointed teeth spilling from his mouth and a hungry mocking in his eyes.  
  
"¿Có - cómo se llama?" Patrick asks them, determined to show he's not completely ignorant, even if it is with primary-school standard Spanish.  
  
"Diéguez," the taller man says. "Him - he is - mayate," he points to the other man.  
  
"My - a - tay?" Patrick repeats slowly, looking towards the man for affirmation or correction. He simply walks ahead, opening the trunk of the car and gesturing for Patrick to hand over his bags. Diéguez smirks. There must be a joke Patrick's missed.  
  
"Sí. Mayate - drive," he says, pointing to the front seat and snapping his fingers.  
  
Once they're on the road, Mayate translates Diéguez's gruff speech for Patrick. "He says your new home is nice. Very spacious. Fit for a king. The boss picked it out himself."  
  
"The - boss?" Patrick asks, "Sánchez Arellano?"  
  
The both snort with laughter. "No, no," Diéguez says, "Alejandro. El Verraco, cómo se le llama."  
  
"He calls himself El Verraco," Mayate explains. "Don't call him anything else. He is the - regional manager," he smiles, "in Rosarito. He wants you to bring him García's head on a seafood platter."  
  
"You no meet Arellano. We no meet Arellano," Diéguez says. "He ask - for you. He pay you. He no trust you."  
  
"Oh. Brilliant," Patrick mumbles, amidst Mayate's laughter.  
  
"Verraco fucking worships you already," he says, then drops his voice slightly, "is it true you killed a Wo Shing Wo Dragonhead?"  
  
Suddenly they're both staring, Diéguez's gaze fixed upon him from the passenger seat. Patrick shifts, studying his cuff link with renewed interest. "Uh - that's highly classified."  
  
Diéguez says something that has the tone of an *I knew it!* and Mayate shakes his head and breathes, "Dude. That's in _sane_ ."  
  
They natter to each other for a few moments, occasionally throwing curious glances at him. Patrick carefully avoids them, leaning his head against the window and deciding he can shut his eyes _just for a second..._ _  
_  
"Whoa, there, sleepy man," the person who's gripping his shoulders is saying. He's halfway out of the car door, and they've stopped moving. As Patrick comes to his senses, he realises they've arrived. "Been a long trip for you."

"Oh - I'm so sorry," he says as he realises, with a rush of colour to his cheeks, that he'd fallen asleep in the company of drug dealers. "It's just the travel, it won't happen again, I -"  
  
"It's fine," Mayate laughs, helping him out of the car and clapping him on the shoulder. "You get one mistake." He grins wickedly, and for a moment, Patrick believes him, believes they'd kill a man for dropping off at an inconvenient moment. Then, he bursts into peals of laughter, leaning into Patrick's side in a strange echo of Louisa and the school playground.  
  
"Esta es tu casa," Diéguez announces, gesturing towards the olive-painted, balcony-strewn building in front of them.  
  
"All-expenses paid," Mayate adds. "Told you El Verraco liked you."  
  
It's huge. A stone staircase sweeps up to the doorway, the drive alongside it boasting two garages, neither of which Patrick will need, elegant architecture lining the porch that leans on spiralling pillars, no less. Patrick can only stare and hope the bed is made up.  
  
The inside is perhaps even more beautiful than the outside - the kitchen is three times the size of his at home, the tiled floor sweeping into the lounge, complete with a TV the size of a dining table. He can feel amused eyes on him as he drops his bags at the door and wanders through the place, his heart leaping when he sees the quilted, king-sized bed sitting on a fur rug in the middle of the next room. He wonders what they'd think of him if he simply passed out in front of them. Then again, he's already done that.  
  
"Happy?" Mayate calls, flashing that toothy grin from where he leans against the doorframe.  
  
"This - really wasn't necessary," Patrick says, "but - I'll take it."  
  
"I bet you will," Mayate says, the grin slipping into something more sly, more seductive. If Patrick's not mistaken, he's gay as a beard-burned ballsack and he's not hiding it, his gaze sweeping over Patrick and his teeth hooking into his bottom lip.  
  
He's an attractive man, Patrick won't kid himself. Tattoos peek out of his t-shirt, snake around sculpted biceps and glow on golden brown skin. Patrick would probably shag him if they'd met ten years ago. As it is, his cock has resigned itself to a lifetime of half-arsed jerking off between Lottie's bedtime and his own. He looks away.  
  
"Refrigerator is fully stocked," Mayate says, gesturing towards the hulking silver slab to the side of the kitchen, "should have everything you need. There's a Calimax around the corner if we've missed anything urgent - otherwise, just call me and I can run into the town for you."  
  
"Thanks," Patrick says, trying desperately to hold back a yawn. He rather wishes they'd leave - the bed seems to be drawing him in.  
  
"There'll be a meeting in a couple days. I'll text you when we know where and when and shit. But - yeah, other than that, we're done. Keys," he says, tossing them onto the counter, "see you - around, I guess." He turns with a campness that almost makes Patrick laugh, and Diéguez follows.  
  
When the door slams, Patrick lets out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face and sloping towards his bags. The walk back to the bedroom seems like a trudge across the desert, his bones slowly shifting to lead and his mind shutting down piece by piece.  
  
He manages to close the curtains and fish through his suitcase until he finds pyjamas. He lays them on the bed, shrugging his jacket and shoes off and placing them in the wardrobe, removing his shirt and trousers and telling himself he'll find some kind of washing basket in the morning.  
  
It's habit that drags him to the bathroom and into the shower, his skin salted with day-old sweat and his hair lank with grease, tangled with travel. He'd tried to convince himself to hold off sleep until a more reasonable hour, but after dropping off against the tiles one too many times, he can't deny himself any longer.  
  
Once he's clean, fresh and dry, pyjamas soft against his skin, he crawls into the bed, pushes his face into the blankets and almost sobs at the give of the mattress underneath him. As soon as he shuts his eyes, he falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.  
  
-  
  
It's just past five a.m. when Patrick stirs from perhaps the best sleep he's had in two years, his hands groping for the pillow that's rolled from his grasp during the night. For a few moments, he wonders if Lottie's up, watching TV in the lounge or scampering down the corridor to nag Patrick until he crawls out of bed.  
  
But then he remembers that Lottie is six thousand miles away and eight hours ahead, and he himself has entered a drug ring where he must kill two of the wealthiest and most influential men in Mexico. He holds the pillow tighter, stroking a thumb over the fabric and squeezing his eyes shut. It all seemed so much easier when Will was around. Only now does Patrick know what it is to be completely, inescapably alone.  
  
The deep bliss he'd sunk into the night before slips out of reach, and he falls instead into a shifting and uneasy sleep.  
  
-  
  
The next morning, Vaughn has fully surfaced. He sits up in the bed and surveys the room, his vomiting suitcase and clumsily placed weapons case, the mess that Patrick made in his haste to sleep.  
  
He looks down at himself, at his slightly rounded belly and his flabby arms. He's let himself go since MI6, since his years of kicking down doors and sprinting after terrorists turned to sneaking in the shadows and hiding in plain sight. His biceps are a shallow curve as he attempts to flex them, cursing himself for neglecting the gym.  
  
He decides there and then that if he's going to walk face-first into a drug war, he's going to at least be fit enough to put up a fight. Running a hand through his ruffled bed hair, he swings his legs to the floor, feeling the brush of fur beneath his feet.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, he's running. Rosarito is beautiful - he can't see the ocean but he can smell it in the air, feel the breeze on his face as he jogs along the street. It's barely eight a.m. but the heat has already begun to beat down on Patrick, sweat beading in his hairline and across his top lip.  
  
He's out of breath too fast, his legs scream that it's too much, too soon, but his mind pushes him forward, determined to prove his aching body wrong. He runs until his lungs are white with exertion, until his vision blurs with fatigue - until his hamstring pulls up tight and begins to shriek with pain.  
  
He limps home, frustrated and defeated.

-

"Bring the gun," Diéguez grunts as he beckons Patrick out of the door. Patrick supposes he’ll have to become used to drug dealers appearing on his doorstep.  
  
"He wants to see it, I don't know," Mayate shrugs from behind, neon sunglasses perched on his nose. Patrick turns on his heel and fetches the weapons case from the bottom of his wardrobe, opening it up to see his Winchester nestled perfectly in the foam. They've given him a Glock, too, complete with shoulder holster - he takes it out, feels the weight of it in his hand. It’s already loaded. He shrugs on the holster and presses the gun inside it.  
  
"Where are we going?" Patrick asks as they start down the highway, the gun weighing heavy on his chest.  
  
"Boss's lair," Mayate grins, "the worst kept secret in Mexico."  
  
"Es un pinche ático," Diéguez snorts, and Patrick only understands the curse word.  
  
"He says it's an attic," Mayate provides, "and, yeah. It's a shithole. He likes to be - edgy, or whatever. He's got three fucking mansions but we all hang out above a fucking takeout place."  
  
"Will there be - drugs? As in, the taking of?" Patrick asks, a little afraid of the answer.  
  
"You mean, will we be snorting coke while we play with your toys?" Mayate responds, raising an eyebrow. "Listen, I'll let you off 'cause you're new, or whatever, but seriously, don't ever fucking imply that El Verraco is shitfaced on the job."  
  
Diéguez mutters something under his breath, and Mayate shrugs.  
  
"I mean, yeah, he has been known to sample our product. But don't say it. He doesn't like it."  
  
Patrick nods, wondering if he should be taking notes. How-not-to-get-murdered notes. "So, do you deal it? On the street?"  
  
Mayate suppresses a smile, badly. "No. Well - I don't. Diéguez started at street level - most people did, but we deal to the dealers. We're a step up from the halcones, my friend."  
  
"Right," Patrick nods. "I simply want to understand more about your business," he says curtly, folding his arms.  
  
Mayate narrows his eyes. "I get that, man, and I'm gonna recommend that you ask all your dumbass questions now, before El Verraco sticks them up your cocky white ass."  
  
Patrick opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. He thinks about conceding, laughing along, but decides he has a reputation to uphold. He sticks his nose in the air and looks away. Mayate lets out a braying laugh.  
  
"Pinche imbécil," Diéguez tuts. They speak Spanish for the rest of the journey.  
  
-  
  
"Dieguez, mi carnal!" a man who Patrick assumes is El Verraco shouts, slapping Diéguez on the shoulder and welcoming him into the dimly lit room. He ignores Mayate, who simply moves to stand in the shadows. Patrick rather wishes he could follow.  
  
Instead, he stands dumbstruck as the boss approaches him, wondering if he should prepare to be hugged or perhaps punched. El Verraco snaps his fingers. "Búscalo."  
  
A large man seems to step out of nowhere, a foot taller than Patrick and a good deal wider. He motions for Patrick to raise his arms, and Patrick does so without protest. It's a bad idea for a hitman to be caught with a gun in front of a drug dealer - it's perhaps a worse idea for a hitman to be caught without one.  
  
The man finds the Glock almost instantaneously, and tosses it to the boss.  
  
"Naughty boy," El Verraco tuts, waving the barrel at him airily. He moves in front of Patrick, looking him up and down. He's tall, beefy, his belly showing under the hem of his bright purple shirt. Patrick stares up at him, before he's pulled into a crushing hug.  
  
"Sicario!" The man shouts, pulling Patrick's face into his armpit and shaking him by the shoulders. "I have been counting the hours," he purrs, then shoves Patrick away. "You are not as I expect."  
  
"And what was it that you were expecting?" Patrick asks carefully.  
  
El Verraco bursts out laughing, gesturing towards Patrick and staring around at his posse as if to show off his new performing monkey. "You talk so funny! And so small, also - small, funny man in a suit."  
  
"I'm glad you find me so amusing," Patrick murmurs, narrowing his eyes.

  
"I do!" he replies, moving to sit behind his litter strewn desk. The room is an organised mess - a large safe stands squat in the corner, a speaker the size of Patrick's face ripples distorted bass through the floor. "You like the house I give you?"  
  
"Yes - you're very generous," Patrick says. He can feel the eyes of every man in the room on him, reading him, testing him.  
  
"Is nice, sí? This is how I treat people that I like. And I like you, sicario. Even if you do not speak español."  
  
"You're not paying me to speak."  
  
El Verraco barks another laugh and claps his hands together. "Correct! Now - you are going to kill that cabrón García, yes?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I want his head. I want to put it right here," he points to the space of wall above a poster of a nearly naked woman. "It would look nice, you agree?"  
  
"I will kill him. I will not recover his body," Patrick says.  
  
"I will say what you will and will not do," El Verraco responds, his expression freezing over. Patrick senses the tension in the room tighten, closing around his sweat-shined throat. "I am boss. You do as I tell you, gringo."  
  
Patrick swallows, pushes his chin out. "I am providing you with a service. If our relationship is not based on mutual respect, then I am not interested in working with you."  
  
The boss stands from his chair - his obnoxious velvet throne - and slams his hands on the desk. Patrick keeps his expression neutral. "What?" he says. "Is this fucking gringo talking shit to me? Are you -" he rounds the table, pointing at Patrick, "are you fucking talking shit to me? To my face?! Who the fuck do think you are?!"  
  
"I'm the man you hired to kill your rival."  
  
"That's fucking right! And I could find many others who could do this job just as good!"  
  
"No, you couldn't," Patrick says smoothly, looking El Verraco right in his wrinkled eyes, " _your_ boss asked for me, personally. I'm the best."  
  
El Verraco pulls a gun from his belt and holds it to Patrick's face, his other hand grabbing Patrick by the collar and pulling him close. The barrel pushes into his temple. "You fucking listen here. You fucking listen to me. If you do not do as I tell you, I will blow your pretty white brains out. Do you understand?"  
  
Patrick waits a few throttling seconds before he strikes, shoving El Verraco backwards at the same time he grabs the gun and twists. The man cries out as his arm is wrenched to the side, and he relinquishes his hold on the weapon. Patrick takes it in both hands and points it at him, his finger hovering over the trigger.  
  
"Like I said, " Patrick sighs, releasing the clip and tossing the barrel to the floor, "this relationship must be one of mutual respect."  
  
Only the hum of the bass fills the silence. El Verraco stares at him, at the pieces of the gun scattered across the floor. Then he laughs, hysterical and braying.  
  
"You," he points a stubby finger at Patrick, "you are something else. You know what? You got spine. I like that. I will let this go. But you should know, the next time you point a gun at me, Da Costa here will snap your neck."  
  
Patrick knows not to push his luck. "Understood," he says shortly.  
  
"Now - let's see what you are packing."  
  
At first, they scoff at his Winchester - it's a hunting rifle, a basic model, but once Patrick points out his customisations - the longer barrel, more powerful scope, tailored grip - they make admiring noises.

“Impressive,” El Verraco tells him with a heavy slap to Patrick’s shoulder. “You will make good sicario. We will meet again soon to prove your loyalty.”

Patrick is rather nervous to find out what that means, but he nods all the same, lets El Verraco draw him into another sweaty hug.

“He will drive you home,” El Verraco says, pointing at Mayate. “You need anything, he will get it for you. Anything you desire - _anything.”_ There’s a wicked spark in his eyes that Patrick doesn’t like the look of. “See you soon.”

-

  
"That was - fucking awesome, dude," Mayate observes as they drive home. Diéguez went on to a bar with some of the other menacing men around the room. "Like - you actually pointed a gun at his face. That was insane. How the fuck did you know he wouldn't kill you?"  
  
Patrick shrugs. "He can't afford to kill me."  
  
"Still," Mayate says, "fucking awesome. _You do as I say, gringo_ ," he grins, impersonating El Verraco's gruff tone, " _I won't work for you if you don't respect me_ , and he was like, _then I'll kill you_ and then bam! You just fucking took his gun right out his hand!"  
  
Patrick's mouth quirks at the man's genuine excitement. He bites his lip and looks away.  
  
"Like, I've never seen anyone do that. How do you even read that, man, like, I would’ve just fucking bolted as soon as he started shouting, but you were just, like, super cool, not even blinking, fucking _come at me_ kind of attitude. Didn't you doubt yourself even a little?"  
  
Patrick simply shakes his head. "He couldn't kill me."  
  
"He could’ve hurt you, man. I've seen him do fucking crazy things to people, y'know, he fucking cut someone's nose right off their face this one time, the _blood_ , oh mama," Mayate winces, shaking his head.  
  
Patrick pulls a face, but doesn't respond. He's not sure how wise it is to go about making friends in a drug cartel. He can feel the other man's eyes on him.  
  
"So - so, like...is Vaughn your first name or your last name?" he asks.  
  
"Both," Patrick replies.  
  
"Oh," Mayate says. The atmosphere descends into awkward. Patrick can almost feel Mayate thinking of something to say.  
  
"Uh. And you?" Patrick tries, just to keep himself away from jerk territory. "Is Mayate your first name?"  
  
The hundred mile an hour reply Patrick expects doesn't come. When he looks over at Mayate, the man's eyes are fixed on the road, unwavering.  
  
"Did I - am I pronouncing that right?" he asks, and Mayate winces.  
  
"I - that doesn't mean what you think," he says quietly. "At least, I hope it doesn't."  
  
Patrick frowns. "Is that not your name?"  
  
Mayate - or not - shakes his head. "You have - in English - the word nigger, yes?"  
  
"Yes..." Patrick says, already embarrassed at where this might be going.  
  
"That is Mayate. Means black beetle. Dung beetle," he says.  
  
Patrick's eyes widen. "Oh - I'm so sorry, God, if I'd have realised -"  
  
"You didn't know," he says, shrugging. "But - that's what they call me. I'm from Jamaica, originally, so."  
  
"God, I - I -" Patrick stammers, a deep sympathy welling up within him. "I'm just - so sorry. That's awful. I - so what _is_ your name?"  
  
"Pete," the man - Pete, _Pete_ \- says shortly. "Pete Wentz."

"Pete," Patrick says, "Pete, I - I'm so -"

"You don't have to keep apologising," Pete interrupts, "name-calling is not the worst thing they do around here."

"Yes, but - I swear, if I'd known, I'd never have - God. Pete," Patrick repeats, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the cruel nickname.

"It's fine," Pete says, his tone dropping into something less forgiving. He doesn't sound as if he particularly wants to talk about it anymore.

Patrick twitches in his seat for the remainder of the drive, biting his lip to retain the guilty silence. He tries to think of something else to say, a subject towards which the conversation could shift, but he suspects he and Pete don't have a lot in common besides a connection with murderous criminals.

Nevertheless, when Pete pulls into Patrick's palatial driveway, Patrick finds himself asking Pete in for a drink, desperate for something to say, desperate to be set apart from El Verraco and his posse. Pete's grin is sunny, crocodile-esque. He jumps out of the car with an enthusiasm that makes Patrick glad he asked.

"You probably know what I have better than I do," Patrick says as he unlocks the front door and makes for the fridge, "but I've probably got beer, or - or something stronger."

"There's tequila in there somewhere," Pete calls from across the room. He's already sat on the sofa, that wicked grin spread over his face.

Patrick laughs. "It's barely three o'clock," he replies, "a little early for the hard stuff, don't you think?"

"Not at all," Pete says, "the harder the better."

Patrick throws Pete a somewhat confused smile as he roots around the cupboards in search of tequila. "Do you want, like, a shot? Or, or I guess I could make margaritas but I'm not sure if I -"

"Fucking hell, man, just get over here," Pete says, and when Patrick turns to look at him, he's lounging by the kitchen island, watching Patrick with a strange look in his eyes. Patrick closes the cupboard and takes a few steps forward, remembering the gun pressed snug to his chest and hoping to God he won't have to use it.

But Pete doesn't reach into his pocket; he simply closes the distance between them and suddenly, he's on his knees, his hands running up Patrick's thighs and his mouth leaning forward to - to -

Patrick stumbles backwards in realisation as Pete's fingers begin to fumble with his zipper. "Hey - what are you - that's not -"

Pete simply hangs on to Patrick's belt, looking up at him as if _Patrick's_ the crazy one. "Dude, it's cool, just imagine I'm a chick," he shrugs.

"No - I - _stop,_ " Patrick exclaims, swatting at Pete's overly adventurous hands.

"I'm good, I swear," Pete insists, "just clear your head and _feel,_ güey." ****

Patrick experiences a moment of lapsed judgement when Pete's hand moves to squeeze his crotch, feeling him out through his jeans, cupping and squeezing in ways that make Patrick's poor, neglected cock ache for more; but then he snaps back to himself, pushing Pete's hands away and stepping backwards until his hips hit the kitchen counter. "I - that's a generous offer, but I really must refuse," Patrick pants, the blood that should be in his brain having relocated south.

Pete pouts, blinks up at him, but eventually shrugs his shoulders. "Your loss, dude." He gets to his feet and begins to search through the fridge as if nothing happened, leaving Patrick clutching onto the kitchen counter and breathing hard.

"Do - do you do that a lot?" Patrick asks as Pete takes two glasses from the cupboards. Pete simply shrugs again.

"You asked me in for a drink, man," Pete says, "But it's cool if you're not in the mood yet."

"Uh - I really did mean just a drink, I didn't think - I didn't want you to -" Patrick stumbles, any sense of chill long gone.

"Oh," Pete says, his hand stilling on the glasses. "so - you don't wanna bone at all?"

Patrick lets out an exasperated breath. "No, no, I just thought after - that you'd like to - come in for a drink and like, talk?"

Pete seems vaguely offended by this. He places the glasses back on the counter with a crack and shuts the fridge. "Oh. Well. I - should leave, then."

Patrick doesn't know what to say, so he simply stares like a startled goldfish. Colour rushes to his cheeks as the atmosphere sinks into awkward.

"Sorry I, like, tried to suck your cock," Pete says. Then, he leaves. Patrick breathes out.

-

Patrick tries to put it out of his mind - it was Pete’s mistake, Pete’s misreading - but somehow, the blush doesn't quite leave Patrick's cheeks until he steps into the shower that evening. He can't deny that a part of him wishes he'd let Pete take his cock out and stroke it, suck it like no-one has in years. The feeling of someone else's hands touching him is both alien and painfully familiar, yet he doesn't quite realise how much he craves it until he imagines Pete easing his trousers open, mouthing at his cock through the fabric. 

He leans back against the tiles as he reaches between his legs and grasps himself gently, light little touches that make his hips twitch with want. His fantasies are usually faceless, driven by unknowable porn stars and anonymous holes, but this time, all he can think about is Pete's mouth, Pete's lips wrapped around his cock, Pete's tongue lapping at his balls, hands snaking to his arse and teeth sinking into his thighs. 

He imagines what it might be like to feel Pete around him, to sink his cock into Pete's tight ass, to fuck and fuck and fuck like he hasn't in so long. He's thrusting into his fist now, eyes squeezed shut and cock aching with need, desperate to be buried inside something other than his own hand. 

It's over almost as quickly as it began - his mind runs away with him, picturing Pete's pretty eyes looking up at him, Pete's lips painted with Patrick's come, Pete's tongue darting out to lap at it, smiling at the taste. He pumps his cock frantically, sliding his thumb over the blood-gorged head and imagining it resting in Pete's mouth as he starts to come, spilling over his own hand. 

He strokes himself through the aftershocks, running his fingers along his length just to drag out the feeling for a few seconds longer, his chest rising and falling rapidly before he moves back into the stream of the shower. As the tingling pleasure fades, the guilt begins to creep through him, the realisation that Pete isn't just a fantasy and he'll have to speak with him, work with him again. 

Patrick puts it down to blue balls and a tendency to latch onto anyone that shows him friendship. Pete's an attractive man, there's no denying it; Patrick wouldn't have thought twice about jacking off to a colleague ten years ago. It doesn't mean anything, nothing means anything when his cock is hard and all that matters to him is release. But still, the guilt weighs heavy on his chest. Will would have scolded him. 

He goes to bed sorry yet satisfied.


	2. Chapter 2

Satisfaction, however, is the last thing on his mind when Pete appears outside his door a few days later. Patrick had planned to smile, to play at relaxation, to act as if he belongs - but the look on Pete's face as Patrick opens the door makes all ideas of friendship dissolve. 

"What's happened," Patrick says, already reaching for his hat. "Is everything alright?" 

Pete purses his lips. "Meeting," he says simply. "Now." 

The journey is silent. Patrick sees the colours of the town sway into the searing orange of desert, watches Pete's expression slip from solemnity to flickering fear. 

"What's going on," Patrick asks steadily, sweat beginning to pool in the crevices of his palms. Perhaps this has all been a ruse - perhaps he'll leave here in the back of a truck with a bullet in his skull. 

Pete doesn't look at him, a sigh rippling through his tense frame. "They like to do shit like this. Don't let it mess with you." 

Patrick nods, Pete's stony gaze telling him not to ask any more questions. He stares ahead at the sprawling landscape, heat waves rising from the road in front of them and turning the tarmac to shimmering lakes. The sky is a bright, artificial blue that seems to draw the land towards it, the sun beating through Pete's window and painting them both with searing bars of liquid gold. 

The road twists suddenly towards the figures of buildings on the horizon, shadowed by the mountains and gleaming in the heat. As they close in, Patrick sees that the figures are cars, trucks, motorcycles piled towards the skies - a scrapheap as dead as the soil it rests upon. Patrick swallows, wondering what exactly they're trying so hard to hide. 

Pete weaves through the skeletons of cars until he comes to a clearing. Patrick recognises El Verraco and Diéguez, and a few others. A figure lays curled on the ground next to El Verraco. Patrick steels himself. He thinks he already knows what's about to happen. 

"Sicario!" El Verraco cries as Patrick climbs out of the car. "So glad you made it. He is good driver, no?" 

Patrick glances at Pete, who shrinks back a little. "Yes," he says, "very good." 

"Now," El Verraco says, stepping towards Patrick and placing a heavy arm around his shoulders. "Why do I bring you here? I have something to show you." 

Patrick nods, looks around at the group. There's more guys, bigger guys, each with guns in their belts and menace in their eyes. The man at the front holds a rope - the rope is attached to the neck of a body in the dirt. It stirs, looks up. She's a woman, terror writ plainly across her face. Patrick feels sickness writhe in his stomach. 

The man pulls on the rope and the woman lets out a strangled cry as she's lifted to her knees. Her eyes meet Patrick's as he nears her, a silent begging screaming within them. Patrick looks away. 

El Verraco lets go of Patrick and strides over to her, his boots kicking up dust. "This one - this ramera," he says, pausing to spit at her, "she tries to bring me down. She tries to bring the pinche  _ policia  _ on me. She is - gringa. American. Like you, sicario." 

It's a thinly veiled threat. Patrick shifts where he stands, avoiding the woman's eyes. 

"She thinks she can beat me. She thinks she can send me to jail," El Verraco laughs, then kills his smile. "She is wrong." He places a hand on the back of her head and shoves her into the dirt, beckoning Patrick towards him. 

The men watch him as he steps forward, the ground creaking under his boots and the back of his neck beginning to sweat. There's no room for backtalk this time - the woman's life seems to teeter on his shoulders. 

"What do you think of her, sicario," El Verraco asks as he slings an arm around Patrick's shoulders once again. "Would you - chinga? Fuck?" 

Bile rises in Patrick's throat as he considers that the woman has already been raped by Verraco and his men, perhaps hundreds of times over. She looks up at him, her face bloodied and desperate. He shakes his head. 

"No?" El Verraco questions, "she is young. Tight." 

Patrick can't find it within himself to say anything. His jaw remains taut, his shoulders stiff. El Verraco pulls him closer. 

"We find out she is CIA - and you know what we did to her?" he whispers, his hand sliding to the back of Patrick's neck. "Chango!" he shouts to the man holding the rope, "what did we do to her?" 

Chango says something in Spanish, and El Verraco laughs in Patrick's ear. 

"Correct. We nail her to a wall. We leave her there until she cries, until she is starving and then we go to her. We fuck her until she bleeds - she cannot move. She can only take it. She eats our meco - begs us for it. We cut her open and fuck the holes.  ¿ Comprende?" 

Patrick can feel El Verraco's rancid breath on his face. He nods, tries not to flinch away. He fails when El Verraco lands a heavy kick to the woman's chest. "De - dejala," Patrick says quietly.  _ Leave her.  _

El Verraco laughs, wet and dirty. " ¿ Que? No, no. You are not understanding. This is not about her. This is about  _ you.  _ I like you, sicario, but if you betray us - it will be you down there on the ground." 

They both look at the woman. She's openly crying now, shaking her head as the man with the rope moves closer. Patrick only now notices that he has a canister of paraffin in his hand. His stomach drops into his boots. 

"Hey - I get the message, you don't have to do this," Patrick says, squirming in El Verraco's grasp. "I'm sure she's learnt her lesson, you don't have to punish her any more." 

El Verraco laughs once more. The woman is sobbing, her gaze ricocheting between Patrick and the man with the rope. Her dark eyes slice into Patrick with a breed of fear that only ever precedes death. Patrick saw it years ago, moments before he was deemed a widower. She reaches for Patrick's legs, bloodied and cuffed hands clutching at his trousers. 

"Please," she cries, "help me, please!" Her face is filthy, her lips broken and her eyes red. Patrick looks down at her, his hands twitching by his sides. "I can get you money, I can - I can get you contacts," she begs, "don't let them do this!" 

The anger buzzes impatiently in Patrick's chest, contained only by the necessity that he must not give himself away. All he can do is step out of her reach, his bottom lip clamped hard between his teeth. El Verraco smiles, slaps him on the shoulder, begins to lead him away. "Better stand back," he hisses, "things are about to get messy." 

The woman shrieks, bloodcurdling, as Chango grabs her by the hair and yanks her to her feet. Then, he uncaps the jerry can and pours its contents over her head. Patrick looks around - the men are deadfaced, motionless. He doesn't think he can stand to watch this. 

It seems to take decades for the can to empty - the woman continues to shout and cry, spitting light yellow liquid from her mouth as it coats her face and clothes. 

"It will not be quick," El Verraco whispers in his ear, "her skin - her face will burn, melt, her eyes will boil in her head, but she will not die. Her skin will peel, her juices will leak from underneath. Like pork," he says, smacking his lips. Patrick shuts his eyes, swallows hard, his hands curled into fists. Chango takes a lighter from his pocket. The woman screams once more. 

Patrick knows his hands are tied. He knows that this is a show, a threat to the disloyal. This doesn't stop him from doing what he does next. 

He barely thinks, only acts. He takes his gun from his holster and shoots her in the head. 

The crack of the bullet is followed by a gaping silence that seems to close around Patrick's throat. The woman falls to the floor and lies still. El Verraco explodes. 

His hand flies to Patrick's hair, dragging him into a headlock and pinning him in place. Another man seems to appear from nowhere, wrenching his arms behind his back and twisting until he drops the gun. El Verraco is shouting in Spanish, just missing Patrick's nose with the heavy punch he aims at Patrick's face. 

"¿Qué mierda?! " Chango says, still holding the lighter. 

Patrick struggles in El Verraco's grip. He's strong, he's fast, but it counts for nothing when there's a forearm pressed into his windpipe and both his wrists are held in someone's fist. They've both got two hundred pounds over him. 

"Who the  _ fuck  _ do you think you are!" El Verraco snarls, finally releasing Patrick's neck and throwing him into the dirt. Patrick gulps down the air, scrambling away from his boots. The barrel of every man's gun is trained upon him - in response, he raises empty hands above his head. 

"Killing is one thing," he pants, "suffering is quite another." He keeps his hands lifted as he stands, watching El Verraco carefully. The man's face is volcanic. 

"Get over here," the boss snarls, beckoning Patrick towards him. Patrick hesitates, tries to read whether it's a trap, whether he can avoid it if it is. "I said  _ get over here _ !" El Verraco bellows, living up to his boarish nickname. Patrick brushes dust from his jacket and moves towards him. 

A rather terrified part of Patrick thinks that he'll be next for the dousing, but he reminds himself over and over that he's indispensable. They can't kill him. This is hardly reassuring - he doesn't need his teeth to shoot a rifle.

But El Verraco just presses a lighter into his hand. "Go on," he says, "burn her." 

He's shoved towards the woman's body, blood dripping from between her eyes. Her skin glistens with tears and paraffin. Patrick can't take his eyes off the wound - very rarely is he made to confront the damage he inflicts. But she's not in pain; she's not sport anymore. He crouches beside her and brushes her eyes shut, then flicks the lighter into life and holds it to the ground beneath him. 

Flames leap out at him, engulfing the body and sending a wave of heat over him. He reels backwards, but El Verraco takes him by the shoulders and holds him still. "Look at her," the boss hisses in his ear, "watch her cook." He takes hold of Patrick's chin and angles it towards the woman's corpse.

So Patrick watches. It seems to go on for hours, the fire eating through her skin, licking at her bones. The smell is nauseating. The smoke stings Patrick's eyes. 

By the time El Verraco's grip loosens, Patrick's face is damp with sweat, his head beginning to ache with the heat. "Clean up your mess," El Verraco tells him. Pain explodes in Patrick's gut as the boss  drives his fist into Patrick's stomach, then shoves him towards the dying flames. 

"Vámonos!" he shouts to the other men. 

They all begin to leave, silently moving over the sand. There's something ghostly about the atmosphere, the towers of scrap metal looming over them like gravestones. A number of feelings swim in Patrick's stomach as he watches them walk away. Regret isn't one of them. 

To his relief, Pete remains. He leans against his car, staring firmly at the floor. He doesn't move until each one of the group's cars have driven away, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. 

"I got a tarp and a shovel in my car," Pete calls, pushing himself off the car and wandering around it. Patrick wipes at his brow - he's not sure if he'd be up to handling the charred remains with his bare hands. 

"You do this a lot?" he asks as Pete approaches, dragging the tarp with the shovel slung over his shoulder. Pete shrugs.

"Occasionally," he says, looking down at the corpse and making a face. "Haven't had a burning in a while. 'S not the worst I've seen." 

Patrick doesn't doubt it. He arranges his face into something less horrified and rolls his shoulders back. "Yeah - me neither." 

A solemn silence settles over them as they lay out the tarpaulin and scrape the boiled and bloodied remains from the dirt. The sun beats down on the back of Patrick's neck, scorching his skin to a bright pink. Later, Patrick will sigh at it, apply sun cream far too late. They wrap the almost-skeleton in the tarp, and Patrick lifts it carefully, respectfully. 

"You okay?" Pete asks, half an hour into the car journey. Patrick's not sure where they're going - presumably the cartel's graveyard. 

"Yeah," Patrick replies, his gaze fixed on the running landscape beyond his window. He's seen all manner of horrors, of suffering, of violence - but nothing quite gets him like the sight of dead eyes, of still lips. He wrings his hands tightly together, pulling his mind back from the path down which it never fails to stray. Now is not the time for grief. 

Pete's looking at him - throwing curious glances every so often, his lips quivering as if he'd like to voice something but doesn't know how. Eventually, he lets out a sigh, fixing his gaze upon the road. "I just - I just wanna say that - I think it was good. What you did. With the - y'know. Like, I've never seen anyone do that before. That was really - brave. I guess." 

"It was the only thing I could do for her," Patrick says, a heavy sadness drifting over him. "That kind of suffering is unforgivable." 

Nodding, Pete throws him a concerned glance. "Did he hurt you? The boss?" 

The brewing bruise in Patrick's gut throbs angrily, as does the nick on his cheek from El Verraco's ring. "No. I'm fine." 

"You must be careful," Pete warns, "I know you can handle yourself, but - if he loses his temper, he could just rip your neck right open." 

"Noted," Patrick replies. 

"But - like, how can you do that?" Pete asks suddenly, his eyes wide with unknowing, "just - like, kill someone?" 

It’s a question Patrick’s been asking himself for years. “You just - do it,” he says. “I tend not to think about it.” 

Pete nods, but uncertainty still swims in his eyes. Then, it dawns upon Patrick - the man works in a drug cartel. 

"Surely - you've killed too?" Patrick asks. "Isn't that a rather large part of your job?" 

"No," Pete says with a shake of his head. "I've never carried a weapon." He shakes at his shirt and gestures to his empty belt to prove it. 

"Can I ask - why?" Patrick says curiously. His own gun seems to burn against his chest. 

Pete simply shrugs. "I don't wanna," he says, and doesn't elaborate. Patrick decides not to ask how the hell he remains useful with that attitude. 

Turning on the radio doesn't feel appropriate given their situation, so they sit in silence, the desert rolling past and the sun drifting across the sky. Patrick's face throbs every so often, the imprint of El Verraco's knuckles stinging when he touches his fingers to his cheek. Every part of his body seems to hurt in some way, his knees grazed where he fell, his wrists aching where they were gripped. He's no longer built for this. 

They finally pull to a stop when a dark fence appears on the horizon, clutched by gnarled foliage, dust lapping at its edges. The border. Patrick suddenly understands the significance of all this. She was American - she'll be left as a _ fuck you _ to the California authorities. The spot Pete's chosen looks thoroughly abandoned - the only sign of life is Pete's tyre tracks in the dirt. Patrick wonders how many times Pete has driven corpses here. 

The smell is like nothing else. When Pete opens the trunk, it swamps them both, charred and sickly and decaying. Patrick presses his sleeve over his mouth and nose, unable to look away from the mess of flesh and bones in front of them. Her eyeless sockets stare straight at him - he doesn't expect he'll get much sleep tonight. 

They heft the tarpaulin onto the sand and Patrick lets Pete guide him towards the fence. "On three, we're gonna tip it, okay?" Pete says. 

"Can't we at least bury her," Patrick questions. He knows full well what the answer will be - but he feels he should at least try. Pete shakes his head. 

"It's a warning, yeah?" he says, "he wants them to find her. If they don't it, it will be trouble for us. So - on three." 

Patrick guides the remains onto the ground as gracefully as he can, almost gagging as melted fat drips from the plastic. The taste of the fumes clings to the inside of his throat. He keeps his mind blank, keeps Vaughn firmly at the wheel. He'll break down if he remembers that she's someone's daughter. 

They both stare at the remains for a few seconds. Patrick's jaw has been clenched vice-tight for the last few hours - he can feel a headache brewing in his temples. Eventually, Pete folds up the plastic and heads back to the car. Patrick stares at the weeping bullet wound in the woman's skinless skull. Some moments gain significance only when they are long gone - some strike so hard that they leave a scar immediately. Patrick doesn't think he'll ever forget the way bare muscles snake over blackened bone. 

A hand wraps around his forearm. "You good?" Pete asks. The sun casts flecks of gold through his mahogany eyes - Patrick marvels at how easy it would be to dig them from his skull. 

"Yeah," Patrick says, stepping away from the body and turning back to the scintillating Mexican landscape, Pete gives his arm a small squeeze, then tugs him gently towards the car. 

"Let's go," he says, "this is a dangerous place to be for too long." 

-

Patrick's beginning to believe that statement applies to the entirety of Mexico - he risks his life crossing the roads every morning, horns blaring and drivers shouting, busy commuters with no time for sparing the lives of joggers. Yet, he feels stronger for it, his confidence growing with each sentence he speaks in a language that is not his own, each satisfying ache of his reinvigorated muscles. His old life seems to fade away with his flab, each strained press-up pushing him further from fatherhood, each slam of his feet into the ground sculpting the perfect weapon. 

But the majority of his days are spent poring over documents detailing García's movements, his supposed homes, his businesses. The impossibility of his task reveals itself - he is unable to track the cartel's finances, he does not have the power of MI6 behind him, there is no computer geek reeling off possible outcomes. He is a man with a gun. 

They've done a lot of the leg work for him - El Verraco's lackeys no doubt sent on near suicidal missions to tail one of the most dangerous men in Mexico. There's a selection of upcoming meetings, a few known residences and nearly five pages of money laundering locations scattered throughout Mexico. 

He selects only those within a six hour radius of Rosarito, and highlights those that are within three. The quicker he's back on home ground, the better - news of the kill will travel fast and revenge will be swift. He wonders what they might do to him if he's caught - perhaps he'll be burned like the woman, perhaps he'll be crippled by weeks of gruelling torture and then murdered in some slow, spectacular way. 

In his days at MI6, he was never scared. Everything always seemed to work out in his favour, all the villains seemed so far away, so powerless compared to Patrick and an army of supercomputers. Now, he's alone, and the villains are giving him lifts. 

But Pete seems far from a villain. He arrives, always, with a smile on his face and light in his eyes. He only occasionally claims he's bored when Patrick's spent a fourth hour checking out a potential kill site, when they sit outside a hotel for a whole day whilst Patrick makes note of the traffic flow, when they drive for most of the day simply so that Patrick can take a reading of the wind speed at the top of a particular hill.

Patrick's just got in from his morning run when Pete arrives, unexpected and unannounced.

"Anybody home?" he shouts through Patrick's open front door, and Patrick sits up from where he's collapsed on the couch and stares towards the hall. Pete appears a few seconds later, grinning when he sees Patrick red-faced and wheezing. "Good run?"

Patrick's not quite sure if he's being sarcastic, but he nods anyway, heaving himself from the sofa and propping himself up against the arm. "Splendid."

"Nice pants," Pete smirks, his eyes dropping briefly to Patrick's regretfully tight shorts. If it were possible for Patrick's hue to deepen, this would be the moment for it. "You up for a day out?" 

_ Day out _ could mean anything from a shopping trip to an assassination, but either way, Patrick doesn't suppose he has much of a choice. "Of course," he says, wiping sweat-damp hair out of his face. "What's the occasion?" 

"Pickups," Pete says, wringing his hands together with mock excitement. "Boss's orders." 

"Pickups?" Patrick asks. 

"The dealers hide lana, we pick it up."

"Lana?" Patrick questions, then frowns. "Drugs?" 

Pete laughs. "No - money. Marmaja, varos, billete. You know?" 

"I only learned dinero," Patrick replies. Pete shakes his head. 

"You're lucky you're pretty, güero," he says, "and you're  _ very  _ lucky my mamá spoke English." 

"Indeed," Patrick sighs, thinking just how excruciating it might be to have Diéguez sitting stoically beside him on long journeys. "I'm afraid languages aren't my strong point." It's yet to be divulged what Patrick's strong point actually is. 

Pete simply shrugs. "You shoot guns. That's all we need." It's all anyone ever needs from him. "Go and shower, you look like a wet tomato." 

Patrick supposes that's a fair observation, and hurries from the room. He gets the distinct feeling that Pete's staring at his arse. He hasn't yet decided if he minds. 

-

After an hour on the road, Pete pulls into the driveway of a tiny, dilapidated barn. They're far from civilisation out here, the desert stretching for miles around them, undead and furious. Pete stops the car but doesn't get out immediately, instead peering through the skeletal structure, watching for shifting shadows. 

"I can go first, if you'd like," Patrick offers, reaching into his jacket and resting his hand upon his gun. But Pete dismisses him with a wave of his hand, and gets out of the car, heading towards the building. Patrick hastens to follow. 

The barn is exactly as Patrick expects - dark, unstable, unsafe, shafts of light illuminating patches of the dusty ground and the flight of scattering birds making him start. Pete seems to know this place, heading straight for a specific corner, a particular patch of wall in which there is a loose board. Patrick's gun sits snug in his hands as he hovers around Pete; he must be here for Pete's protection. 

But Pete seems perfectly at ease without a bodyguard. He counts the money quickly and quietly, then shoves it all back in the paper bag and heads back to the car, waving it at Patrick on his way out. 

"Is that it?" Patrick says once they're back on the road. Pete shakes his head.

"Eight more. But - yeah, that's all there is to it." 

"Why on earth do you need me?"

Pete simply shrugs. "I like the company. Plus - you never know. Sometimes there's a fight. It helps to have a gunman." 

Patrick nods, but doubts how pleasurable his company truly is. They spend the majority of journeys in complete silence, occasionally listening to the radio when Pete sees fit. There's only so much that an assassin and a drug dealer can have in common. 

"Do you have family?" Pete asks after a particularly long stretch of quiet awkwardness. Patrick supposes it's innocent, but even if he had a gun to his head, he wouldn't answer that question honestly. 

"No," he says, "I'm not really family-friendly." 

At that, Pete laughs. "I guess not."

"What about you?" Patrick asks, keen to move the focus away from himself. 

"Nah," Pete says, keeping his eyes on the road. "My dad left before I was born. My mum died, like, ten years ago." 

"Oh - I'm so sorry," Patrick hastens to say, but Pete shakes his head.

"It's cool, she was really sick. And I've got a brother but - I don't know, I haven't seen him in years. It's just me, really," he laughs like it's no big deal. Patrick watches him sadly. 

"That's awful," Patrick says quietly, wondering how on earth he came to feel sorry for a drug dealer - then again, he wouldn't wish bereavement upon anyone. 

Pete shrugs. "But - yeah. No wife, if that's what you're asking."

It wasn't, but Patrick nods anyway. He has a sneaky suspicion that Pete might be looking to find out his own marital status - but that particular kettle of fish isn't one he'd like to boil at this precise moment. He keeps quiet, and Pete's eyes return to the road. 

They visit several similarly dilapidated buildings over the course of the day, as well as a very specific fence and an otherwise inconspicuous patch of sand. Patrick spends a large amount of time simply hovering, scanning the landscape for movement as Pete fishes packages from rafters and holes in the ground.

The sun sinks in the sky as they near their final stop, casting a deep orange over the skies and long shadows over the landscape. Pete seems to know each identical stretch of desert from the next, turning onto a dirt road that Patrick barely spots in the low light. He won't deny that he'll be glad to get home - he reeks of sweat and dust, his hat abandoned on the back seat. 

Pete stops the car and Patrick makes to get out, unbuckling his seat-belt and reaching for the door handle. A hand on his shoulder stops him. 

He freezes, turning his head slowly to look at Pete. He's half expecting to come face to face with the barrel of a gun. But Pete's got a strange look in his eyes, a stare that bores through Patrick's skull and makes him shift slightly under Pete's grip. Pete hand slides down his arm, coming to rest in the crook of his elbow where his thumb begins to stroke over Patrick's skin. 

Patrick stares at his fingers for a few seconds. It becomes quite clear what's going through Pete's mind. 

"We both know it's got to happen," he says gruffly, his eyes dark. “Are you gonna turn me away again?” 

Patrick finds himself at a complete loss for words, his lips twitching uselessly and his body tense, still. He wants it - oh,  _ God _ , he wants it, he hasn't had anything like this in so long - but is the right time really here, now, in the middle of a desert with a drug dealer he barely knows? 

Pete seems to have decided that for him, pushing himself over the gear-stick and bracing a knee either side of Patrick. Patrick's spine is flat to the back of the seat, his shoulders rigid with indecision and his eyes watching Pete with alarm. He reminds himself that he's armed - he could throw Pete through the windshield if needs be. 

He flinches as Pete's hands touch his face, smoothing over his hair and along his jawline. Patrick's eyes remain open as Pete leans to kiss him, pressing his lips to Patrick's, sinking his teeth into Patrick's bottom lip. Patrick doesn't kiss back.

"Come on," Pete whispers against Patrick's mouth, "I see the way you look at me. You wanna put your cock inside me, don't you?" 

Patrick struggles with an answer to Pete's question, his mouth hanging open as Pete feasts upon it. 

"What's the matter, sicario?" he growls, bringing a hand to press at Patrick's crotch, "Afraid your wife will find out?" 

Patrick lets out a pathetic little groan as Pete cups him through his jeans, his cock twitching with interest. His brain wrestles for control of the situation. 

"Does she know you like cock?" Pete whispers, his breath hot over Patrick's face, "does she know you'd rather fuck a man? Did she pack you off to Mexico and beg that you stay faithful?  _ Kill all you like, Vaughn, just don't cheat on me. _ Is that what she asked?"

Pete's hands trail over his chest, his thumbs rubbing absently across Patrick's nipples as if he doesn't realise how mad he's driving Patrick. 

"But you're a bad man, Vaughn," Pete says, his voice mostly breath, humming over Patrick's skin, "you kill, you lie, you cheat. What's one more sin?" 

Patrick thinks of how he swore to protect his family - he thinks of how he vowed never to abandon his daughter, of all the times he's told himself that the last person he'd fuck would always be Will. Pete's right - what's one more broken promise? 

He lets his eyes fall shut as their open mouths collide, realising just how much he's missed being kissed when Pete's lips pull at his own. "That's it," Pete purrs, "let me have you." 

And so Patrick does. Pete's mouth is rough, hungry, his teeth grazing Patrick's skin, biting at his neck as a hand drags his head back. He feels an emptiness being filled as he begins to move with Pete, to smooth his hands over Pete's slim hips and cup his firm ass. Pete hums an appreciative noise across the space between them, his fingers dropping to Patrick's thighs and teasing, stroking, mocking. 

"Eager?" Pete hisses to Patrick's earlobe as he strokes over the bulge in Patrick's jeans. "Do you think about fucking me? Have you touched yourself, Vaughn?" 

Patrick feels heat rush to his cheeks, remembers the things he pictured in the shower, the things he imagined doing to Pete. Pete's hand presses down on his cock and he gasps into Pete's mouth. A teenage thrill rushes through him as Pete undoes his button and eases the zipper down. 

Pete's hand rests over the fabric of his boxers, infuriatingly idle and sending white hot sparks from his belly button to the tip of his cock. A bubble of shame expands in his chest as he feels himself leak already, a dark patch appearing on the navy blue material. He's running desperate and Pete knows it. 

"I'm going to fuck you," Pete whispers, pushing his mouth against Patrick's once more. "Take your cock out for me, baby."

It's unlike most sexual experiences Patrick's had - he's good in bed, he knows he is, but this is something else. A test, perhaps, a duel. He's fairly sure he's losing. He relinquishes his grasp on Pete's hip and reaches into his boxers, pulling his cock free for Pete's apparent inspection. 

Pete purrs. He strokes a hand over Patrick's length, runs a thumb over the leaking head, squeezes in places that make Patrick moan with want. Easing Patrick's balls out, he plays with them, gentle touches driving Patrick dizzy, his cock swelling, throbbing. "Not bad," Pete murmurs, touching two fingers to the beads of precome bubbling from the tip and bringing them to his lips. "For a gringo." 

Patrick can only stare at the way Pete's mouth glistens with his come, saliva pooling on his tongue. He wants so much - to bury his cock between Pete's lips, to strip Pete naked and ravish him for hours, to fuck him until he screams. But saying it would give Pete far too much satisfaction, so he simply bites his lip and watches Pete perform. 

"Touch me," Pete says, taking Patrick's hand from his hip and pressing it to his crotch. Patrick feels him through his jeans, thick and hard and just for him. It's been years since he's done any of this - the thought of touching another man's cock again has his own filling up even more. 

He undoes Pete's jeans and pushes them down until his erection springs free. He's waxed smooth, a tattoo positioned under his navel, bisected perfectly by his cock. Patrick wraps his hand around it and watches Pete's eyes fall shut, stroking him slowly as if this might give him the upper hand. It doesn't. 

Pete leans back until he's resting against the dashboard, pulling his jeans off over his shoes and reaching into the pocket of the door and retrieving a bottle of lube. A thrill ripples down Patrick's spine as he considers that they're going all the way. "Suck me while I prepare," Pete tells him, his head thrown back and his hip bones protruding. 

Patrick covers them with his hands as he leans forward and licks a line up Pete's cock, tasting the bitter salt and flooding his own mouth with saliva. He’d forgotten the taste, the feel of it, and chases the sensation, sinking down until the head of Pete’s cock nudges the back of his throat.

He's clearly taking far too much control for Pete's liking - the man grabs Patrick by the hair and drags him away, leaving his mouth empty and wanting. 

"Take what I give you," Pete snarls, lowering Patrick's head and pushing the tip of his into Patrick's open mouth. "No more." 

Patrick sucks at what he can reach, relishing the throb of a cock on his tongue. He can hear the slick sounds of Pete's fingers stretching himself out, the thought of fucking someone for the first time in years sending his head spinning. His own cock aches between them, touch-starved and begging to be buried somewhere warm and wet. He resists the urge to stroke it - he doesn't imagine he'll ever live it down if he blows his load early. 

All of a sudden, Pete pushes his head down, shoving Patrick onto his cock and thrusting deep down his throat. Patrick gags, very nearly catching Pete with his teeth, his eyes watering and his lungs dragging in the air through his nose. Pete begins to fuck his mouth, shallow and quick, his chest heaving. It’s a strange sort of enjoyment - the aggression, the disregard - but his erection has yet to disapprove, and the anticipation of fucking Pete keeps him sucking hard on the cock in his mouth. 

Just as he's becoming accustomed to the sensation of having his mouth used, Pete stops him, pushing him back to the seat and crushing their mouths together. He's all tooth and claw, biting at Patrick's lips and raking his nails over Patrick's chest. The tiny spikes of pain seem to rush straight to his cock. 

"Are you ready for me," Pete murmurs, his lips wet and open against Patrick's jaw. Patrick nods, letting slip a moan as Pete takes his cock in his hand and lines it up. 

He sinks down only an inch or so, allowing Patrick's cock to slip between his cheeks, the tip nudging at his hole. Patrick's hands twitch on Pete's hips, resisting the urge to pull Pete down and push his cock as deep as it'll go. Then, Pete begins to lower himself further, and Patrick feels every centimetre of his cock slipping inside, every clench of Pete's hole around him. 

"How long has it been since she let you fuck her," Pete hisses as he begins to move, "was she as tight as me, Vaughn?" 

Patrick just lets the words wash over him, refusing to acknowledge the guilt building in his gut, and focussing instead upon the blissful throb of his cock deep inside Pete. He'd contented himself with the feeling of his own fist, only now realising how utterly inadequate it is in comparison to the warmth of another person. 

Pete's hands clutch at his shoulders as he bounces in Patrick's lap, the elegant line of Pete's throat on display as he closes his eyes and throws his head back. Patrick drops his head to Pete's collarbone, mouthing at his skin, groans of pleasure fucked from him. He feels used, vulnerable, Pete's hands roving over his body and Pete's body moving on his cock as if he's nothing more than a particularly life-like dildo. He's not sure he'd choose it again - but for now, he savours the contact, the attention and attraction of another man. 

The slap of their hips fills the small space, their breath hot and mingling, the air beginning to reek of the sweat that shimmers on their skin. The sky is a deep red, now, clouds scattered across it, glowing as if ablaze. 

Patrick tries desperately to hold himself back - he squeezes his eyes shut, ignores Pete's groans, tries to forget that his cock is sunk inside someone, but it's no use. He's coming before he knows it, crying out into the slick silence and feeling the ecstasy wash over him like it hasn't in so long. 

Pete fucks him through the aftershocks, milking him of everything he has before lifting himself off and sinking his fingers deep into his own ass. "The pretty ones always have the least stamina," Pete says, watching Patrick's come drip down his fingers with a look of disappointment in his eyes. Patrick has no chance to respond as Pete pushes his fingers into Patrick's mouth, the bitter taste of them bursting across Patrick's tongue. "Pathetic." 

Heat rushes to Patrick's cheeks once more, the gravity of what he's just done beginning to sink through him. Pete leans back a little and begins to jerk himself furiously, pushing himself up on his knees as he starts to come. Patrick closes his eyes and turns his head in anticipation, but Pete takes him by the chin and twists him back, pulling his mouth open just as hot liquid splashes into his face, across his lips, onto his tongue. 

And just like that, it's over. Pete opens the car door and climbs out, scooping his jeans from the footwell and walking away, leaving Patrick bewildered and covered in come in the passenger seat. 

For a few seconds, he simply breathes, his mind rushing back to him and his fingers clutched tight to his knees. He tries to remember the last time he felt so dirty, so used. He tries to remember the last time he felt so satisfied.

He takes a tissue from his pocket, relieved that fatherly habit forced him to bring a pack, and begins to wipe at his face. The mirror in the sun visor shows a man with flushed cheeks and guilty eyes - he looks away, rubbing at the mess on his shirt and jeans. His cock is sticky, sensitive as he dabs at it before tucking it back into his jeans and vowing never to let it think for him again.

Pete doesn't say anything when he gets back in the car. Patrick doesn't try to make conversation either, preferring to stare at the darkening sky around them than acknowledge what just happened. He can still taste the bitterness of come on his tongue. He takes a few sips of water to get rid of it.

"See you tomorrow, Vaughn," Pete grins as he stops the car in Patrick's driveway. Patrick's not quite sure how he feels about that yet.

-

The next morning brings a feeling of intense shame coupled with a simmering desire to do it all again. As he wakes, remembers, regrets, he digs his fingers deep into his eye sockets, scratching the sleep from them as if he can cleanse his mind, too.

Of all the things he should not do, a drug dealer was one of them. The comprehensive list of things to avoid did not mention sexual relations purely because the very idea of it would be outrageous, obvious even to the most dim-witted of agents. He tries not to picture the look on Hurley's face if he ever hears that Patrick fucked the enemy.

He slings his arms over his face and lets out a long sigh. What's done is done - he supposes there's no use dwelling on it. He curses his lack of self-control and his stupid, desperate cock and finally gets out of bed, pulling on his running shorts in the hope that he can burn Pete out of his system.

-

He can't.

The man is insufferable, throwing sly little glances at Patrick as they drive to one of the restaurants García supposedly favours. Patrick can do nothing except stare ahead, avoiding the other man's gaze and permitting only stunted conversation. He wonders if he could request a different driver; Diéguez, perhaps - silent, to-the-point and staunchly heterosexual. Yet he supposes that this would not reflect kindly upon Pete. Patrick hasn't quite got to the stage of wishing harm on the man.

But as the day goes on, Pete's smirks turn to frowns, and the playful light in his eyes dims. Hours of silence stretch out between them. Patrick feels an odd sort of vindication.

García, thankfully, doesn't show. Patrick likes the restaurant - the street is busy, the windows are large, and the rise of the landscape behind them would provide him an adequate nest. However, any plan he concocts depends solely on whether García would choose to sit by the window; any further back, and he would be obscured by the glare of the sun, and Patrick would risk injuring civilians. He takes photos throughout the day, noting the angle of the light across the glass and the visibility when the dinner-time rush starts.

Pete, as always, waits patiently, playing on his phone for most of the day and occasionally moving the car to avoid attracting suspicion. He fetches them both sandwiches when Patrick's stomach begins to growl, and Patrick thanks him. Other than this, they don't speak.

Until finally, Pete seems to cave. They're driving home at last, stiff and drained, when Pete opens his mouth to speak.

"Are we cool?" is all he says. Patrick rubs a hand across his face.

"I don't know," Patrick says truthfully, shaking his head. "Are you planning on - telling anyone about what happened?"

"No," Pete replies. "I just wondered if - like, that was okay, right? You do - y'know, like guys?"

Patrick lets out a breathy laugh. "It's a little late for that, isn't it?"

Pete bites his lip and turns his eyes back to the road. "I dunno, I just - got a vibe from you. But - if I'm wrong, then - I'm sorry."

"If you were wrong, I would have thrown you through the window," Patrick says. "I'm gay, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh," Pete says, his frown clearing a little. "Cool. Me too, I guess."

"I gathered that," Patrick says. "I'd appreciate your discretion - not many people know that about me."

Pete nods. "Of course - I get it." He mimes zipping up his lips and Patrick quirks a smile. He's not sure why he trusts Pete - the man seems slightly deranged, not least when he was blowing his load over Patrick's face - but he doesn't suppose he has much of a choice. They don't speak for the rest of the journey, yet the atmosphere feels a little lighter.

"Bye," Pete says as Patrick climbs out of his car. There's something bashful about the way he says it - if Patrick's not mistaken, Pete's gone and got himself a crush. He'd think it sweet if Pete hadn't already gone and jumped on it the night before.

He gives Pete a small wave and congratulates himself for getting through the day. The guilt still writhes low in his gut. 

-

"Want to come back for a drink?" Pete asks a few days later. They've had a stretch of respite since the restaurant recon, during which Patrick bench-pressed his body weight in confusion and tried not to wank over Pete. He failed.

"I - don't think that's a good idea," Patrick says, shifting in the plush leather seat.

Pete looks at him with wide eyes that do nothing at all to prove his innocence. "Just a drink - I swear."

Patrick's been an agent for long enough to know that Pete is absolutely lying. There's a shine in his eyes that shows he's thinking with his dick - his hands fidget on the steering wheel. Patrick watches the landscape run away from them and tries to decide what he wants.

Pete is lovely. There's no denying it - his honeyed skin glows gold in the light of the setting sun, illuminating his elegant profile. Patrick would love to spread him out and strip him down, to fuck him as if they were strangers and the morning brought no consequences.

He’d told himself it could never, ever happen again. On the contrary - the damage is already done. Pete was right; what's one more sin?

"Okay," Patrick says, casting a glance towards the man beside him. "Just one drink."

-

Pete's house is nothing short of magnificent. The driveway is perhaps half a mile long, stretching up a shallow hill to a castle of water and glass. The reflections of the swimming pool paint swirling silver patterns on the floor to ceiling windows, balconies running around the white walls with a stunning view of the pacific ocean. Patrick had almost forgotten quite how much money was in the drug trade. Pete grins at him as they climb from the car.

"My humble abode," he says, shrugging as if there isn't an infinity pool circling his house. He leads the way to the front door, opening it with a flourish and a smile. He welcomes Patrick inside, touching his fingers to the small of Patrick's back as he steps over the threshold.

"May I take your coat?" he asks sweetly, and Patrick suppresses an eye-roll. He plays along all the same - he's Vaughn, after all. He can play the part of Casanova for a night. He lets Pete slide his hands over his shoulders, his fingers brushing Patrick's collarbone, grazing his biceps.

He hangs Patrick's coat on the hook and prances through the vast lounge, towards the glittering kitchen. "A beer? A cocktail?" he calls to Patrick, who follows slowly, "I make a real good margarita."

Patrick supposes the less sober he is, the less guilt he'll feel, for now at least. "Sounds lovely," he says, staring at the array of bottles behind Pete's bar.

"Please - sit down," Pete says, gesturing to one of the many plush sofas in the lounge. Patrick makes for the closest, perching in the corner awkwardly before he remembers his role and sinks into the cushions, sprawling his legs out a little. "You think the restaurant will work?"

Patrick nods. "If I can find a suitable nesting spot, and the light doesn't get in the way, it should work," he says, "but - the hotel was also a viable option." He doesn't get the sense that Pete particularly wants to know, but he keeps talking just to fill the silence. "A lot will depend on the conditions on the day. Although I'm not sure the boss will be willing to give me a second try."

Pete hums his agreement, the rattle of the cocktail shaker filling the room. Patrick slings his arm over the back of the couch, a vague attempt at being the man Pete thinks he is.

Drinks in hand, Pete makes his way towards Patrick, a soft smile on his face as he hands a glass to Patrick. Patrick sips at it greedily, savouring the tang of lime and salt on his tongue, willing the alcohol to turn him into someone else. Pete was right - he  _ does  _ make a good margarita. 

"Very nice - thank you," Patrick says, and Pete grins, taking a large gulp of his own drink and sitting a surprisingly respectable distance away from Patrick on the couch. 

"So," Pete says, and Patrick readies himself to be mounted at a moment's notice, "what do you think of Tijuana?" 

Patrick makes a noise of approval. "It's beautiful. Hot - but beautiful." 

Pete smiles. "Just what I like," he says, his eyes flicking across Patrick's reclined frame. Patrick feels a silly little spark run down his spine - he's rather missed flirting. 

"Have you been here all your life?" Patrick asks, taking a slow sip of his margarita and being sure to look Pete right in the eye. 

"Here and there," Pete shrugs. "Spent some time in the States - you can hear," he says, gesturing to his mouth. The American shines through when he speaks English, a hint of Mexican Spanish creeping in every so often. "My mum taught me some Jamaican Creole, but - we didn't stay there for long. You're from England, right? I've never been there. Is it nice?" 

Patrick laughs. "It's - adequate. I think you'd find it rather dull." 

"Maybe you can show me around," he says, leaning towards Patrick as he slurps at his drink. "Tell me, Vaughn - what do you think of Mexican men?" 

Patrick almost scoffs at Pete's laughable attempt at subtlety, but manages to keep a straight face, deciding to simply play the game. "Hm. I think they're - bold," he says, "exciting. Passionate." He casts a very deliberate glance towards Pete's lips, and Pete takes the bait, leaning forward and placing a gentle hand on Patrick's thigh. 

"Correct," Pete says, stroking his fingers over Patrick's jeans and placing his empty glass down on the coffee table. "Do you know what we think of Englishmen?" 

Patrick shakes his head, licking his lips in readiness for the inevitable moment when Pete kisses him. Instead, Pete's gaze turns sour. 

"Weak," he spits, wrinkling his nose, "small-minded. Desperate." 

Patrick frowns, the sultry atmosphere ruined and his bubble bursting over his head. "That's - a little unfair," he says, breathing a laugh. 

"Is it?" Pete asks, raising his eyebrows and looking Patrick up and down. "Maybe I'm remembering it wrong. Maybe you didn't beg for my cock the other night."

Patrick stares. "I think you'll find you rather forced yourself upon me." 

"Well, what else was I supposed to do?" Pete asks, "you're clearly not man enough to make a move yourself. Like I said - weak. Desperate, like a teenager. Pathetic," he spits, his eyes sharp and his nails digging into Patrick's knee. Patrick's about to stand up and excuse himself before he finally understands what Pete's doing. 

"You really think I'm weak?" Patrick says, letting an edge of threat creep into his voice. Pete nods his head, looks away as if he doesn't care. It's all part of the game. "I disagree." He places his glass on the coffee table and prepares himself for what he knows Pete will say next. 

"Prove it." 

Patrick fastens his hand around Pete's forearm, pinning it down and gripping as hard as he dares. Pete's eyes light with excitement as Patrick surges forward and pushes him to the couch, his other hand fisted tight in Pete's shirt. Before he knows it, he's kissing Pete, their lips colliding over and over, their teeth, noses, tongues crashing together. 

When he pulls back, panting, Pete giggles. "Still not convinced," he says, yelping playfully as Patrick sinks his teeth into Pete's jaw and claws at Pete's shirt. 

"Take it off," Patrick murmurs, grinding his crotch against Pete's until the man whines underneath him. Patrick already feels more comfortable - like he's finally got a grip on the rope with which Pete's dragging him along. He intends to pull with all his might. "Let me see you." 

Pete doesn't have to be told twice - he begins to unbutton his garish Hawaiian shirt, grinning like the Cheshire cat all the while. His various tattoos are steadily revealed - a necklace of thorns around his collar, his arms covered with complex images Patrick can't quite make out, a strange winged symbol above his crotch. He's shaved smooth, glowing in the low light, skinny yet toned. Patrick attempts to remain unimpressed. 

"Like what you see?" Pete asks, throwing his shirt to the floor and leaning back to display himself to Patrick. "Gonna come in your pants, Vaughn?" 

"I don't intend to," Patrick replies, placing a hand in the centre of Pete's chest and leaning to kiss him once again, "You arse is far more tempting." 

"My mouth's not half bad, either," Pete grins, licking his lips. "Want me to suck on that big cock?" 

A burst of electricity buzzes through Patrick's crotch - he wills himself not to get too hard too quickly. "Impress me," Patrick whispers, grazing an open-mouthed kiss over Pete's chest before leaning back on the couch and spreading his legs. Pete flashes that million-dollar smile and slides to the floor, running his hands slowly up Patrick's thighs. 

He's an excruciating tease, placing light touches to the line of Patrick's cock through his jeans, squeezing and biting and cupping in all the most frustrating ways. Patrick tolerates it for a minute or so, then threads his fingers into Pete's hair and draws him forward, pressing Pete's face to his crotch and leaning over. 

"Stop teasing," he hisses. "Get on with it." 

Pete casts an eager look towards Patrick and mouths at him through the fabric, finally starting to undo Patrick's jeans and pushing them down to his knees. As he pulls Patrick's cock from his underwear, Patrick holds his open mouth back, toys with himself slowly in front of Pete's face. 

"You want my cock?" Patrick asks, quoting the last porno he watched and hoping Pete doesn't laugh in his face. Instead, Pete watches Patrick's hand sweep from the moistened tip of his cock to the thickened base, his tongue darting over his lips as if Patrick's cock is the most delicious thing he's ever seen. For the first time in a long time, Patrick feels hot, feels wanted. 

He loosens his grip on Pete's hair and lets him lean forward, watching him lick a burning stripe along the length of Patrick's cock. As he begins to suck at the tip, Patrick lets out a groan, remembering just how good it felt to have someone's mouth wrapped around him, to be doted on in such a way. 

Pete is clearly well-practiced at blowjobs. He knows how to pull Patrick back from the brink, he knows to knead Patrick's balls slowly in his palm, he knows to keep those pretty brown eyes trained on Patrick and that lovely mouth wet and open. He takes Patrick's cock right to the back of his throat, pulling off slow and agonising, and Patrick wonders how long this frustrating bliss will last before realising that he's supposed to be taking control. He attempts to arrange his face into something less dopey, and raised an eyebrow he hopes seems bored and unimpressed. 

"I suppose you’re pretty enough," he muses, sliding his hand to Pete's chin and running his thumb over Pete's bottom lip, "a mouth made for cock. I think I'll fuck you, now. Would you like that?" 

Pete nods, still jerking Patrick's cock in his hand whilst sucking on Patrick's thumb. "Want you inside me," he whispers, letting Patrick's thumb slip from his mouth and pressing his lips to Patrick's balls, leaving trails of saliva over the neatly trimmed hairs. He unbuckles his belt and pushes down his jeans, sliding a hand between his cheeks and moaning dramatically as he pushes inside. 

Pulling his own pants off, Patrick slides to the floor, tasting himself on Pete's tongue as he kisses him deeply. Pete's all over him in an instant, his hands sliding over Patrick's hips, across his chest, clutching at the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Patrick's fingers drop to the seam of Pete's ass, pressing lightly in between them and making Pete gasp into Patrick's mouth. 

"Lube?" Patrick breathes, pulling back. Pete thinks for a second, then pushes Patrick away, stumbling to his feet and kicking his shoes and jeans off as he makes for the bedroom, leaving Patrick panting on the lounge floor.

In the spare moments, Patrick attempts to contemplate what the fuck he's thinking - eventually arriving at the conclusion  _ fucking a hot dude _ . He can feel the confidence slowly seeping back to him, the same nerve he had as a horny twenty-something, at the top of his game and well aware of it.

He unbuttons his shirt quickly, glad that he decided to get back in shape - his stomach carries a little less fatherly paunch, his arms are wrapped in ropes of muscle rather than slabs of fat. Throwing his shirt to one side, he pushes himself up onto the couch, attempting to look vaguely sexy with one hand thrown over the arm of the sofa and the other playing with his cock.

It seems to work, because when Pete appears in the doorway, he spends a few seconds simply staring, a lewd smile on his face and his fingers giving his dick a gentle tug. "Fuckin' look at you," he says, and the words send a surge of confidence through Patrick's spine and put a playful smile on his lips.

"Get over here, then" he says, swinging a leg off the couch and watching Pete walk closer in all his naked glory. He can't wait to fuck him -  _ really  _ fuck him, not sit there passive and silent like the last time.

"Where d'you want me, bombón," Pete says, and Patrick assumes it means something good because Pete kisses him hard, dragging Patrick's bottom lip between his teeth as he pulls away.

"All fours," he says, taking the lube out of Pete's hand and uncapping it. Pete grins, turns around and wiggles his ass at Patrick. Patrick feels in his element as he runs a hand over Pete's hips, spreads his cheeks apart with his thumbs - the guilt is less prominent, more of a background buzz that he can tune out than a constant interruption.

Pete moans gorgeously as Patrick fingers him open, his hole coated with lube and shining in the low light. Patrick's cock fills up at the tightness around his fingers, the twitch of Pete's waiting hole, the way he arches his back and presents himself for Patrick.

"I'm ready," he says, once Patrick's got three fingers pressed inside him and a cock that's leaking steadily over Pete's cheeks. "Give me your cock."

Patrick is more than happy to oblige, swiping his dick between Pete's cheeks and nudging the head inside, holding himself there until Pete moans.

"Come  _ on _ ," Pete whines, attempting to press back onto Patrick's cock, "fuck me.  _ Fuck me _ ."

Patrick gives him an inch more, snaking his hand underneath Pete's body and grasping his cock firmly. Pete snarls with want, grinds back, his visceral need palpable in the air between them. "What's the magic word," Patrick purrs, leaning to press a kiss to Pete's spine.

"Please," Pete finally gasps, "God, Vaughn, please.  _ Please _ ."

"If you insist," Patrick murmurs, before snapping his hips forward and sinking himself in to the hilt. He's missed thrusting into something that isn't his own hand, missed hearing someone moan in response to his cock deep inside them, missed fucking until he's breathless and sweating. 

Pete's aggression has all but vanished as Patrick picks up the pace of his thrusts - he's a moaning mess, crying out each time Patrick brushes his prostate and squeezes his cock simultaneously. This is what Patrick knows - if his years of sleeping around taught him anything, it's how to give a good fuck, and he pounds into Pete deep and rough, pulling Pete's hips back to meet his own. 

In that moment, he feels no regret - it’s all been entirely worth it for the feel of Pete, warm and tight around his cock, a buzz of renewed masculinity driving his energetic thrusts. 

"Harder," Pete cries, and the couch begins to creak underneath them as he hastens the snapping of his hips, the pleasure building in his belly, stinging down his spine. Pete starts to whimper with each thrust, his mouth hanging open and his brow beading with sweat. Patrick jerks him roughly, keeping time with his hips until Pete lets out a veritable yell and begins to come, his spine arching and his face crumpling with his release. 

Patrick slows, relishing the way Pete tightens around his cock, watching himself enter Pete's shuddering body. Pulling out, he begins to work furiously over his cock, the pressure building low in his gut before he's coming over Pete's back. For those few moments, he feels a decade younger, savours the way Pete looks at him like he's something worth looking at. 

"Guess you proved me wrong," Pete says as he turns to face Patrick, shrugging as if that wasn't his plan all along. Patrick smiles softly, stretching his buzzing limbs and swiping a hand over his sweat-slick brow. He closes his eyes, enjoying the last few moments before reality sets in. They fade too fast.

Pete moves to touch him, perhaps to hold him, but Patrick's already swinging his legs to the floor and reaching for his shirt. "May I use your shower?" he asks shortly, and the light in Pete's eyes fades a little. 

"Sure," he says. "Through that door, on your left." 

-

Patrick emerges from the bathroom collected and composed, all humanity burned away under the hot stream. He dresses quickly, raking Pete's comb through his hair and staring blankly into the mirror. Pete may have seen Patrick naked, but Patrick will never bare his soul. He buttons his cuffs and tucks in his shirt - he's as good as new. 

But when he steps into the lounge, he finds a still-naked Pete eating pizza on the couch, his legs kicked up on the coffee table and his face crumbling into a frown when he spots Patrick in the doorway.

"Are you really gonna make me drive you home," he says flatly, raising his eyebrows at Patrick. 

"I'm sure I'll find a bus," Patrick replies, scanning the floor in search of his shoes. 

Pete laughs, shaking his head. "Just stay, güey," he says, his shoulders cracking as he stretches them. "It's no big deal. Have some pizza - it's cold, but it's good." 

"I'm fine, thank you," Patrick says, looking away as Pete's smile falls. 

"Too good for me, now?" Pete asks, his eyes deadened, dark. Patrick narrows his eyes, knowing blackmail when he sees it. 

"No," Patrick snaps, "I simply don't want to outstay my welcome." 

Pete scoffs. "I'm welcoming you. Welcome. Stay, for fuck's sake," he says, 

"I - don't have a toothbrush," Patrick states, and Pete barks a laugh. 

"I've got spares. Sit your ass down, man." He pats the space beside him and sinks his teeth into a slice of pizza. Patrick sighs, shifting where he stands. He supposes a bite to eat wouldn't hurt. 

-

The following morning, he wakes to Pete's arms wrapped around his middle.

He'd meant to leave after they'd eaten, and then after the next drink, and then after Pete showered, but by that time it was late, pitch dark outside, and driving home seemed silly when Pete would be back to pick him up the next morning. They'd talked as if nothing had happened, as if they were nothing more than friends making conversation, and it had seemed so innocent when Pete had invited him to bed, leading him to his own room as if there weren’t five perfectly adequate guest rooms. 

Nevertheless, Patrick's eyes flutter open at the chill of the air conditioning over his nearly naked body, his back pressed to another person's chest, and for a fleeting second, he's in Will's arms, loved and in love. But Pete's skin is too dark, too many tattoos snaking over his arms, his frame too small and his hair too short. The illusion breaks before Patrick can chase it. 

He wonders what exactly Will might think of him - fraternising with drug dealers, pretending to be someone he isn't, abandoning love making in favour of knocking boots on passenger seats and five thousand-dollar couches. But would he think any better of Patrick for remaining so bitterly lonely? 

Patrick doesn't know anymore. He used to consult Will's memory at every turn - now it's slipping away from him like sand through his fingers. He knows that one day, he'll forget what Will's laugh sounded like when it rang through the house, the way his mouth would quirk when he was up to something, the way he'd moan under Patrick's hands, sigh into Patrick's lips. He closes his eyes, attempting to fall away from reality. 

But Pete's nose nudges the back of his neck and Pete's morning wood is jabbing him in the arse, the sheets rustling around them as Pete stirs awake. Patrick rather resents not insisting that Pete drive him home - he feels awfully vulnerable in a strange house wearing nothing but his boxers and the hair on his chest on end in the cool artificial breeze. He's not shown himself like this to anyone since Will. 

"Buenos días," Pete mumbles, stroking a hand over Patrick's hip and pressing a kiss to the back of Patrick's neck. "You stayed."

Patrick stomach twists as he considers that he shouldn't have stayed, he should have left in the night with the tatters of his reputation and never mentioned the incident ever again. He mentally kicks himself - he could have severed the tie cleanly and walked away with a semblance of dignity. 

"I knew you weren't an asshole," Pete murmurs, his voice sluggish with sleep and his body pressing closer to Patrick's. Patrick lets out a small sigh. This is exactly what he needs - a drug dealer becoming attached. 

Then again, Pete seems different. It's a cliché that will no doubt come back to bite Patrick in the arse, but apart from the rather serious boundary issues, Pete has been very pleasant to him. He's also extremely attractive. This fact is difficult for Patrick and his ever-attentive penis to ignore. 

His cock twitches with each little shift of Pete's crotch near his ass. He reaches a hand down to touch himself gently - this could be the last time he ends up in bed with Pete, meaning this could be the last sex he has for the next few years, perhaps his whole life. This is enough to convince Patrick's sleepy, gullible mind that he should definitely listen to his cock. What could go wrong? 

Shifting to face Pete, he slides his hand to Pete's thigh, lightly pressing his leg between Pete's own. "I wanna suck your cock," he whispers, and Pete makes a tiny, breathy noise that shoots straight to Patrick's dick. "May I?” 

Pete nods, his lips inches from Patrick's and his eyes blinking rapidly. 

"Do you want my mouth, Pete?" he purrs, "Do you wanna feel my lips drag over your cock? You wanna watch me suck on your balls?" 

He thinks his dirty talk has room for improvement, but this doesn't seem to bother Pete, who grinds his hips against Patrick's and whines. Patrick flashes a sly smile and pushes himself down the bed until he's level with Pete's crotch, his hands sliding to Pete's ass as he leans to mouth at the fabric of his shorts. 

Pete's cock is neat, cut, curving up towards his navel as Patrick pulls down Pete’s boxers and leans to take it into his mouth. Pete's porn-star perfect, even his hole shaven bare, his torso chiselled and his skin clean, fresh. Patrick's clearly won the fuck-buddy lottery, and he shows his gratitude by bobbing his head enthusiastically, his fingers tracing over Pete's hole. 

"Órale," he groans, and Patrick sucks harder just in case that's what Pete means - and it seems to work, because Pete comes down his throat a few seconds later. Patrick licks him through the aftershocks, then shifts back up the bed and snakes a hand into his own boxers, aware of Pete's eyes upon him and arching his back in response. 

He moans dramatically as he comes, biting down on his lip and throwing his head back. When he opens his eyes, Pete looks a step away from drooling.

"You're so fucking sexy," he says, then pounces on Patrick, crushing their lips together, messy and open-mouthed. Patrick kisses back for a few moments, revelling in the buzz of satisfaction, until Pete says, "do you wanna - make this a regular thing?" 

He hovers over Patrick, expectant and hopeful whilst Patrick's mouth twitches with indecision.  _ Drug dealer, _ his mind supplies - but he reminds himself that  _ contract killer  _ isn't exactly very boy-next-door either. 

"It's just - I kinda, like,  _ like  _ you," Pete laughs, as if they haven't already had multiple rounds of aggressive sex. "And - it's not like there's much choice in this line of work." 

Patrick thinks for a moment, imagines what it might be like to have this on the regular, to wake up to a mouth around his cock, a waiting hole for him to fuck. 

"No-one would know," Pete adds, his face dropped to Patrick's collar bone and kissing slowly along it. "It'll make the long days go faster. We do it so good, Vaughn, you know we do." 

"Patrick," Patrick says suddenly, unable to stand the pretence. "That's my first name. Patrick." 

Pete's eyes light and he pulls back in surprise. "Patrick?" he smiles, sliding his hand to Patrick's chin. "That's so cute." 

Patrick scowls - this is exactly what he was afraid of. "It's still Vaughn in public," he warns, turning away from Pete's kisses. 

"Patrick," Pete says again, rolling the r slightly and grinning. "Patrick. I love it." 

-

They fuck once more before they leave, Pete bouncing on Patrick's cock with his head thrown back and the room filled with their hips and their moans. Patrick walks into his own house with a renewed confidence, a spring in his step and contentment in his crotch, if not his chest.

Over the next fortnight, they see each other several times - the long days in the heat are somewhat more bearable when Patrick knows he'll receive a slow, savoured blow job at the end of it, the frustration of unsuitable conditions and unworkable plans eased when he can take it out on Pete's ass. 

It's wrong, good God, Patrick knows it's wrong - if MI6 knew, he'd be fired all over again. He tries to remind himself that if Pete were an attractive woman, intercourse would be expected - inevitable, even - and besides that, it's not as if they're dating. He's found himself an outlet for casual sex - he's quite sure El Verraco would understand. 

The cartel begins to fade into the distance, Patrick's world narrowing to the kill and Pete alone. His days are filled with running, planning, sleeping, interspersed with lewd text messages and impromptu booty calls. It's a life like Patrick's never experienced - the immense danger hardly crosses his mind. 

Until Pete arrives at Patrick's door with that same look on his face as the day the agent burned - he doesn't kiss Patrick, just informs him that they need to be on the road as soon as possible. Patrick nods and fetches his gun. 

"Another stunt?" Patrick asks as they walk to a car that isn't Pete's - it's a black van with tinted windows, silhouettes shifting in the back. 

"Nah," Pete says, "this is for real." 

Diéguez is driving, El Verraco lounging in the passenger seat. "Sicario!" he shouts as Patrick ducks into the vehicle, "long time no see. You worked out where to put bullet yet?" 

"His inflated head would be difficult to miss," Patrick says, wincing as El Verraco roars with laughter. 

"He's funny, no?" the man says to his audience, "I told you so. Sicario - this is El Chino," he points to a man in the back seat with a mop of curly hair, "this is Beto," the man next to El Chino nods, his head shaved and his eyes narrow. "And you know Da Costa." The huge man to the left of Patrick casts a glance towards him. 

It's a tight fit - Patrick's pressed so close to Da Costa that he can smell the egg on his breath. He shifts a little closer to Pete. 

"You will be good boy today, yes?" El Verraco says, raising his bristled eyebrows. "Do not make me take your tongue away," he giggles, wagging a finger at Patrick. Patrick nods slowly. Da Costa glares.

"Te romperé," he snarls, making a snapping motion with his fists. He doesn't need Pete's whispered  _ I will break you _ in his ear to know what Da Costa means.

"Today is big day," El Verraco tells him as they pull onto the main road. "Big meeting. You are - escolta. Uh -" he waves his hands in circles until Pete supplies the word  _ bodyguard _ . "Yes. Mayate is right. He is useful sometimes, no?" he says to the men, who laugh and cast hateful glances towards Pete.

Patrick frowns, but says nothing. He's still attempting to work out how on earth his five-foot-four is supposed to guard anyone - all these men seem perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. Then again, he should be grateful he's remaining useful.

“Arellano,” Pete whispers to him. “This is a great honour. Don’t fuck it up.” Patrick meets his sombre gaze and nods quickly.

"We are branching out. Miami, yes? You know that place?" El Verraco asks, and when Patrick nods, "We talk with boss. He will meet you. Talk in your silly voice."

Beside him, Pete snorts, and Patrick takes the liberty of jabbing an elbow into his ribs. "Understood," Patrick says.

There's barely any conversation for the remainder of the journey. They head not into the desert but into the city, turning off the main road and onto a long driveway towards a sprawling set of factories, their chimneys billowing gases into the air, angled roofs glaring in the sunlight. El Verraco flexes his shoulders, his expression turning stormy.

They snake around the back of the complex to a small temporary building, a guard clad in black standing outside the door. When he sees them, he nods to an invisible other, and a few moments later, the door opens. No-one steps out.

Diéguez stops the van, and Da Costa opens the door, gesturing for Patrick to follow. "Mostrar el arma," he hisses, and Patrick hears the word gun and nods. Da Costa rolls his eyes and grabs for Patrick's jacket, his other hand shaking at Patrick's holster and pointing towards the guard at the door. " _ Mostrar _ , imbécil."

Patrick nods, holds his jacket open as they approach the door. El Verraco follows, flanked by the three other men. Pete trails behind.

The guard looks the both of them over, pulling a Glock from Da Costa's belt and turning it over in his hands. Then he nods, and presses the weapon back to Da Costa. When it's Patrick's turn, he looks him over for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing. "Hombre nuevo?" he asks El Verraco, who nods and replies in Spanish.

"He is special weapon," El Verraco says, clapping Patrick on the back. "Go inside, sicario." Patrick does.

Inside, it's a normal office space - a long table at which several men sit, a large desk at the back covered with neatly stacked papers. At the head of the table, a man sits - tattoos on his cheeks and two large men either side of him. Even Da Costa looks a little anxious.

"Don Arellano," El Verraco says as he steps inside. "Gracias por su patrocinio."

Patrick loses track of the conversation after that - Arellano speaks with few words, his voice quiet, deep. Patrick follows Da Costa's lead and stands at the back of the room, chin up and shoulders back. He casts a glance towards Pete - he looks tense, concentrated. Patrick didn't think the group was capable of being nervous, but El Verraco himself seems to speak with caution,

The meeting drags - Patrick tries his best to understand, and gets about as far as securing a buyer in Miami, but other than that, he simply watches, waits for someone to lash out, for bullets to fly.

"Sicario," El Verraco suddenly calls, his fat finger beckoning Patrick forward. He takes a breath and moves forward, stopping a few feet short of El Verraco. Arellano looks at him for a few seconds, his dark eyes raking over Patrick like claws.

"You better kill him," he grunts, "or I will make you wish you were dead."

Patrick nods, keeping his gaze steady.

"You think I am joking?" he says, and Patrick really, really doesn't, but Arellano beckons him closer all the same. He steps forward until he's level with El Verraco, the tip of his boot nudging the leg of the desk. "Marco," he says, and the bodyguard pounces. Patrick flinches, but does nothing, letting the man pull a wire around his throat. It's all part of the game.

"Listen to me," Arellano spits, "there's a hundred men in my army that could do this job. You are not indispensable. You are here because García wanted you. We have what he does not. You do it clean, you do it controlled. These are not necessities. I will open your chest and pull out its contents if your head gets too big. You understand?"

Patrick nods, pulls small breaths through his nose, the wire tight to his windpipe. Arellano nods to Marco, and the man releases him. He breathes gratefully, his neck bruised and stinging. El Verraco gestures for him to return to the back of the room. He does so without a word. 

As they file out of the room, Patrick feels a hand graze across his back - he turns to see Pete, his eyes meeting Patrick's for a split second before returning to the ground. Patrick has to admit - it feels nice to have a friend in the middle of the drug war. 

Pete keeps his hands to himself as they drive home - El Verraco seems to be in a foul mood, his eyes stormy and the few words he speaks snappy and aggressive. It's somehow still better than the forced banter. 

Patrick rethinks this assertion, however, when El Verraco spots something up ahead that makes him shout swear words at the top of his lungs. Patrick almost reaches for his gun, his eyes scanning the landscape for their attackers, but Da Costa stops him, a hand clamping around his wrist and pinning it to his thigh. "Un control militar," he grunts, pointing up ahead. 

Sure enough, armed officers swarm in the distance, creating a bottleneck in the traffic and beckoning people out of their cars. It occurs to Patrick that if they are arrested, he has nothing to prove he's secret service. He'll be locked up just like everyone else. 

"It's a military checkpoint," Pete whispers to him, "they crop up from time to time. They'll search us, for sure." 

Patrick looks at him in alarm. "So - they'll arrest us?" His voice is hoarse from the press of the wire - his throat stings as he swallows. 

Pete just snorts. "No. We're caciques," he shrugs. "We find ways around." Diéguez turns to look at Pete as he slows the car, a nasty glint in his eye. "Chinga tu madre," Pete spits. 

The soldiers signal for them to roll the windows down - El Verraco does so only after a string of frustrated swearwords. There's a flurry of Spanish, and eventually, Da Costa motions for them to leave the vehicle. Patrick tries to emulate the calm that Pete seems to command. The gun burns against his chest. 

But Pete isn't beside him for long. He and El Verraco talk quietly to a young soldier with dark eyebrows and a shaved head, who beckons his colleague towards them. Eventually, he leads Pete away, a hand placed on his shoulder and his head bowed. Patrick feels a gnawing worry in his gut. 

They stand in the heat of the day for a few minutes more, the soldiers pacing around them, occasionally snapping things in Spanish. Patrick sees El Verraco press a wad of cash into the hands of one officer. Patrick suddenly understands why Pete wasn't at all worried. These people have enough money to pay a whole military off. 

Pete returns with his head still bowed, guided to the car by the officer beside him, who calls out the all-clear. El Verraco gives Pete a slap on the back, then returns to the passenger seat.

"What did you say to him?" Patrick murmurs as they begin to pull away. A chuckle sounds from the front seat, but no-one says anything. Pete looks away, his jaw tight and his shoulders tense. Patrick hopes it was more money - but he has a rather sickening feeling that Pete paid in a different currency altogether.

They drop Patrick off first - Pete doesn't acknowledge him beyond a glance.

-

"Why do they treat you like that?" Patrick asks one evening after they've fucked one another boneless.

Pete stirs on Patrick's chest, naked and sleepy. He simply shrugs. "They treat everyone like that."

Patrick's not sure that's true, but he doesn't push it. Pete closes up whenever he mentions the cartel, just as Patrick closes up whenever Pete brings up their personal lives. They both have their secrets, and Patrick's very grateful that they're not at the point of sharing them. He's not sure he'll ever be ready to talk about Will. 

Yet, Patrick feels something for Pete that he can’t quite place - a protectiveness, perhaps, an affection that runs a little deeper than sex. There's something soft about him, some sweetness that the cartel hasn't quite hammered out of him. Patrick enjoys his company, no longer feeling the urge to flee each time he wakes up in bed with Pete. 

"Why do you care," Pete asks - not accusing, just questioning, just prodding Patrick in the direction of his feelings. Patrick strokes a thumb over the tattoos on his arm. 

"I don't," he says, "I was just - asking. I didn't mean to pry."

Pete makes an uncertain noise and pushes himself back to the pillows. Patrick's been trained to read people, but Pete, for all his flamboyance, can be an enigma. He wonders if Pete wants more than this - he wonders why the prospect doesn't scare him. 

\- 

"Two weeks," El Verraco says. "That's when I want him dead." 

Patrick winces. "The restaurant is really the only feasible location, I -" 

"I don't care," he spits, "they're stepping onto our territory. Kill them all, if you must." 

"I kill one man," Patrick says, "that's all." 

El Verraco lets out a snarl and thumps his fist down on the desk. The smell of spiced, fatty takeout drifts through the floor. Da Costa places his hand on his gun. "Two weeks," he growls, "do it in two weeks." 

"I'll see what I can do," Patrick states, even though he's unsure he'll be able to do anything at all. "Give me any and all information you have about his whereabouts." 

"Fine," El Verraco says. "But I am getting tired of you, sicario." 

"Understood," Patrick says, nodding and backing towards the door, but El Verraco motions for him to wait.

"I will give you information," he says, a strange look in his eyes. "You go outside. Mayate - stay." He snaps his fingers and Da Costa makes for Patrick, ushering him through the door. 

Patrick casts a glance towards Pete - it’s not returned. He steps through the battered, graffiti-strewn door and closes it behind him, leaning against the wall at the top of the urine-scented staircase. 

García is due to cross into Baja California in twelve days' time - Patrick had ruled it out due to lack of information as to his whereabouts, but perhaps if he could find a rest-stop, or a control point, he'd have a definitive location. It would require a few more intensive recon trips, but it's not unfeasible. 

"Sicario," the boss' voice calls from inside the room. Patrick can hear the rhythmic sounds through the door, the heavy breathing. Da Costa shoves at his shoulder, growling something in Spanish when he resists."Sicario!" 

He takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the ground as he pushes the door open. He can see it in his peripheral vision - Pete, on his knees between El Verraco's legs, a cock plunging in and out of his mouth. Patrick stares at his shoes. 

"Look," El Verraco commands. "Watch him take it." 

Patrick feels a little sick as he slowly raises his eyes to see El Verraco's hips thrusting into Pete's face. Pete's eyes are squeezed shut, his hands linked behind his back. The boss' eyes are maniacal. 

It seems to go on forever, the wet sounds bouncing around the room, El Verraco's grunts burning into Patrick's brain. Distress brews in the back of his mind, the need to do something, to stop this somehow - but it's all a power trip, a demonstration of dominance. El Verraco's hand hovers near his gun, the other fisted in Pete's hair. 

"You see this?" El Verraco asks, slapping the side of Pete's head, "this is slave. I am master. You remember this, sicario." 

Patrick nods, averting his eyes once again, only looking back when the squelching sounds stop and El Verraco pulls Pete's head from his dark red cock, coming over his face and hair. "Mi puto," he purrs, then shoves Pete away. "Get out."

-

Pete looks close to tears as they climb into the car, his face red and sticky with come despite his attempts to wipe it off with his shirt, his eyes carefully avoiding Patrick's. Patrick tries to think of something, anything to say as they sit in silence - instead, all he can think to do is reach into his jacket and hand Pete a tissue. Pete snatches it without a word.

An intense hatred burns in Patrick's chest - a renewed desire to see El Verraco bleeding and lifeless, a sickness in his stomach that such abuse of power can go unpunished. A sly, crawling disgust that Pete might have been fucked by El Verraco an hour before jumping into bed with Patrick.

He casts quick glances towards Pete as they drive, watching his eyes redden and his lips flatten to a tight line. Perhaps he shouldn't say anything - perhaps it's best to save Pete any further embarrassment, but Patrick can't stand the sticky silence and he can't watch Pete cry quietly any longer.

"I'm - so sorry, Pete," he says softly. It becomes clear very quickly that this is not what Pete wants to hear.

"Fuck off," he spits, his hands tight to the wheel. "Just fuck off."

Patrick nods, looking out at the flowing landscape. He has so many questions - how often, since when,  _ why  _ \- but he bites his tongue.

"I'm fucking clean, if that's what you're worried about," Pete snaps suddenly, "I get tested often. I'm not -  _ dirty _ ."

The relief that Patrick feels is followed by a rush of guilt. "I know," he says, "I know you're not dirty."

"It's just something they like, sometimes," Pete asserts. 

"They?" Patrick blurts, unable to stop himself.

Pete purses his lips, glaring potholes into the road ahead. "Some of them like it. The boss likes it most." 

"How often?" 

Pete shrugs. "Once a week, maybe." 

Patrick feels a rush of bile to the back of his throat. "That's - awful, Pete, I'm so sorry." 

"Stop fucking saying that," Pete hisses, "it's just the job. I do this, I don't have to kill people. You tell me which is worse." 

Patrick shuts his mouth. 

-

Pete drops Patrick home without a word, pulling away as soon as Patrick shuts the door behind him. 

It takes a little while to sink in - Patrick feels lied to, used, violated in a way that's selfishly illogical. Pete should have told him, perhaps - but when? Pete should have got himself out of this - but how? If he learnt anything from the meeting with Arellano, it's that no-one in this business is here purely out of want. In some ways, Pete has found a better solution than most - he's surviving, just as Patrick is. 

But he can't quite shake the image of Pete on his knees between El Verraco's legs, the imbalance of it all, the indignity. Pete's aggression makes sense, now - his twisted view of sex, his need to take control. What happened at the checkpoint and Pete’s strange attempt at seducing Patrick fall into place. Patrick has seen many horrific things, done many more, but he's never had to sell himself; only his morality. He wonders if that's any better. 

He goes to bed angry, guilty, alone.

-

Diéguez picks him up the next day.

There's no knock at his door, just a honk of the horn from the end of his drive and an impatient wave from the driver's seat. Patrick stares,his heart sinking, but nevertheless picks up his briefcase and hurries out into the heat.

"Where's - uh, Mayate," he tries, the word burning as he pushes it from his tongue. Diéguez pulls away, his tires squealing against the tarmac.

"Not good," he grunts. "Sick. Where we go?"

Patrick swallows his questions about Pete, instead pulling out his various maps and pointing to a particular area of the state border. Diéguez nods, and doesn't say another word. Patrick suspects it's going to be a long day.

They're headed for the 201, a highway that skirts the edges of the cartel's territory as well as the US border. 

He sees exactly what he's looking for - the checkpoint a couple of miles east of the state border, the traffic slowed to a crawl. They pull into a rest stop a quarter of a mile away, darting out of the line of cars and snaking into the surrounding town. The road is bordered by a steep ridge to the north. It's a gamble - he'd have to be ready to shoot as soon as he recognised the car, he'd have to allow for all sorts of logistical problems, he'd have to be unfathomably careful with the military so near - but it could work. 

He spends the day huffing and puffing over potential problems in the passenger seat, assessing how close to the ridge they can park without being noticed. There's a large chance that García will not exit his car - they will know his face, and the size of his empire, he has no doubt already bribed them. Bulletproof glass won't stop him, but he needs proof of kill to stay alive - an uncertain hit is as bad as a miss. He can feel his stress levels rising with each hour he schemes.

-

Pete doesn't show up for the next three days. 

Diéguez won't say a word, and he's not returning Patrick's calls. Patrick doesn't know if he can stand another day of silence and dirty looks. His cock is wondering what it did wrong - he  _ misses  _ Pete, misses him like it's more than sex, misses the way he talks and the sound of his laugh. 

He calls Pete twice more before he decides he must take some direct action. 

-

The mirror never quite shows him what he wants - each time he looks at himself, he expects to see the bright-eyed twenty-year-old, his jawline chiselled and his ambitions soaring. Instead, he sees a tired old man, his hairline creeping away from him along with his looks. Patrick cowers at the sight of him.

His shower is spent scrubbing himself all over with whatever body wash was in the bathroom cupboard - it's overwhelmingly sweet, filling the bathroom with its sickly scent and no doubt every crevice of Patrick's body, too. He hopes Pete likes strawberry. 

He's let the stubble on his face grow out a little, his cheeks roughened with patchy blond hair and his top lip shadowed. He'd planned to cultivate a beard, another step towards Vaughn, but tonight he takes a razor to it, removing a year or two from his face and revealing enough jawline to allow himself an approving nod. 

The suit, he decides, is integral to the outcome of the evening - he stares vacantly at his closet for several minutes before deciding upon a white shirt - it’s the only one he hasn’t killed anyone in. He wears a navy suit over it, shrugging on the jacket in front of the mirror and admiring the way it sits on his shoulders. He undoes three buttons of his shirt - classy yet casual. 

His hair refuses to lie flat despite his incessant combing, so he places a fedora on his head and hopes Pete doesn't decide to burn it. With his chin up and his back straight, he almost looks like the bright-eyed twenty-year-old again. He feels lighter without his gun. 

Navigating the Rosarito transport system, Patrick decides, would be much easier if he knew where exactly Pete's house was. It's not far - it never takes Pete more than fifteen minutes to drive Patrick home, but Patrick's been pressed up against an elderly lady for far longer than that and he's beginning to think he's on the wrong bus. 

He spots flashes of the coast though the jungle of buildings, squints for the hills in search of Pete's sprawling palace, to no avail. He'd told himself that to get a cab would be cheating, but it's getting late, and Patrick would prefer to arrive at Pete's house doused in as little sweat as possible. 

Nevertheless, he stays lodged on the bus, a wall of Spanish in his ears and the bliss of air conditioning fading into distant memory. The elderly lady keeps looking at him - he hopes to God she doesn't try to make conversation. 

"English?" she says in a thick accent, her breath rushing over Patrick's face and filling his nostrils with the smell of orange. He nods quickly, rather hating how recognisably foreign he is. "Lost?" 

With a bitter smile, he nods again. "¿Dónde está Villa del Mar?" he tries, and she shakes her head, pointing in the opposite direction. 

"One - parada," she says, making a walking motion with her fingers. 

"I can walk?" he asks, and she nods, pushing him towards the door as the bus slows. "Gracias," he says to her as he begins to worm his way through the crowd, "muchas gracias." 

Falling out of the bus feels like being born again - he can finally move his limbs freely, the air light and not borne directly from another person's mouth. He takes a second to wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow, and set off down the road, praying that the woman wasn't pulling his leg. 

Reaching Pete's driveway is like happening upon the pearly gates - he smiles briefly, then begins to stride towards the house as if he hasn't spent an hour running around Rosarito. Pete's lights are on, thankfully - Patrick didn't plan for the eventuality of Pete being out. 

He allows himself a moment to catch his breath before he knocks on the door - he can only hope he doesn't look like a boiled lobster, and leans up against the porch in an attempt to emulate some kind of swagger. 

What he discovers when the door opens is that Pete is more gorgeous having rolled off the couch in his boxers than Patrick is after an hour's careful grooming. Still - the look on Pete's face suggests that he disagrees. 

"Patrick," he says, blinking fast and struggling for words around the smile tugging at his mouth. "What are you doing here?" 

Patrick tips his hat and raises an eyebrow. "Taking you to dinner - if you'll let me." 

The light that touches Pete's eyes makes Patrick glad he took the trouble. "Dios mío," Pete exclaims, "I - yeah, let me - wait," he pauses to reach out for Patrick, his hands sliding over Patrick's lapels. "You look hot," he grins, "can I kiss you now, or do I have to wait 'til the end of the night?"

Patrick takes one of Pete's hands and brings it to his lips, kissing each of his fingers in turn. "Lo bueno se hace esperar," he says -  _ good things come to those who wait _ . Pete giggles, his pointed teeth bared and his eyes lit like his infinity pool. 

"Tiene un terrible acento," he says, pinching Patrick's hip before prancing back over threshold and down the hall. "I'll get dressed! Come in!" 

Patrick smiles at his excitement and steps inside, checking his hair in the mirror to the left of the door. He looks suitably dishevelled, but perhaps it adds something. Pete clearly has no objections - he emerges a few minutes later in bright white jeans, a pink shirt and a floral jacket, his eyes rimmed with black and a thin gold chain around his neck. Patrick's eyebrows shoot for his hairline. 

"Fucking hell," is all he can think to say, his eyes trained on the neon pink of Pete's torso, "that's - gay."

"Why, thank you, mi amor," he grins, giving Patrick a neat twirl and blowing him a kiss. He dances towards Patrick and slips an arm around his waist, his other hand sliding up his chest. "One more, I think," he murmurs, undoing the next button of Patrick's shirt and running his fingers over the newly exposed skin. "Otherwise you look too straight."

Patrick laughs, shaking his head and considering that Pete really is quite something. His smile lights the hallway as they make for the door. When they're enveloped in the heat once more, locking the door behind them, Patrick offers Pete his arm. Pete takes it with a giddy giggle, pulling Patrick close. 

"So, where are we going?" Pete asks. And Patrick, for all his meticulously thought out schemes, has no idea. 

They end up in a restaurant fancy enough to look down on them when they say they haven't booked, but not quite so fancy as to turn them away. Patrick would say it's the perfect amount - they have to wait for a little while, but Pete's babbling easily passes the time.

Pete is not at all shy. On Patrick's first few dates with Will, they were both a little cautious about showing their affection in public, holding hands or kisses on the cheek - Pete has no such inhibitions, his hand remaining securely around Patrick's waist despite the few interested looks it earns them. Then again, with Pete in an outfit like that, no-one’s looking at Patrick. 

Once they're seated, Pete takes Patrick's hand, his thumb sliding over Patrick's empty ring finger. "So - do you actually have a wife?" he asks, as if he's asking if Patrick's ever had sushi. Patrick shakes his head. 

"Nah. I've known I was gay since I was young," he says, and Pete grins wider, letting out a breath. 

"Cool. A boyfriend, then?" Pete asks, and Patrick winces.

"No," Patrick breathes, a little incredulous, "if I did, I wouldn't be here with you. Do you really think I'd cheat like that?" 

Pete shrugs, sheepish, taking a sip of his piña colada. "You're a long way from home," he says, like it excuses all sins. "But - I'm glad it's just me." 

Patrick frowns at how incredibly low Pete's standards are. "Of course," Patrick says, giving Pete's hand a gentle squeeze, "to tell you the truth, this is the first date I've been on in a long while."

"Oh?" Pete says, laughing slightly, "but, like - look at you." 

Patrick smiles, attempting to avoid looking bashful but feeling his cheeks heat all the same. "You're very kind." 

"So why haven't you been dating? Were you waiting for a hot slut in Mexico?" Pete says, gesturing to himself with a flourish. 

Patrick laughs briefly, watching the ice float in a slow circle around his glass. "Uh - my husband - died," he says, feeling the mood plummet instantly. "About two years ago now. Haven't dated since."

When Patrick looks up, Pete eyes are wide and his fingers close hard around Patrick's palm. "Dios mío," he says softly, "I'm - sorry, that's awful, I - God. I'm sorry." 

"It's okay," Patrick says, even though it isn't, not really. He hates watching people flounder, hates seeing them attempt to grasp the magnitude of such a loss. Even Patrick hasn't quite grasped it. "It's been a while. I'm getting there." 

"Was he a good husband?" Pete asks, and Patrick blinks, a little blindsided. Usually people ask how it happened and Patrick has to make up some kind of tragic accident. 

"Yes," Patrick says, feeling the lump lurk in his throat. "Yes, the best. He was wonderful." 

Pete smiles at that, stroking his thumb over Patrick's fingers. "Good. What was his name?" 

"William," Patrick says, "Will." 

"So - no more dates?" Pete asks, and Patrick shakes his head, his confidence wavering. 

"No. Actually, that time in the car, that was - well, my first time since - since -" 

Pete's expression melts into horror. "Oh - God, I'm so sorry, I should've checked, or - something, I'm so -" 

"It's fine," Patrick says quickly, "you didn't know. I was - a little taken aback, I'll say that much." 

Letting go of Patrick's hand, Pete buries his face in his palms, shaking his head. "I don't know what I was thinking. I just - wanted your attention, I guess. It was stupid." 

"Well, you got it," Patrick says, "I'm here now." 

Pete peeks over his fingers at Patrick, dragging his hands down his cheeks. "Are you seriously cool with - what I do?" 

"I - I think it's awful that you have to do it," Patrick starts carefully, "but I don't think any less of you for it. If anything, I think more of you." 

Pete gives him a contented nod. "We do what we have to to survive," he shrugs. 

They avoid such topics for the remainder of the meal, talking instead about movies, pets, drinks. They tread carefully around family - Pete seems to have been abandoned by most of his, and Patrick talks in vague terms. He decided long ago that he'd never, ever tell anyone in the field about Lottie. No matter how close he gets to Pete, he can never trust him enough to put his daughter in danger. 

But Pete doesn't question it, simply babbles about his wardrobe and his tequila preferences, toying with Patrick's hand once they've finished eating. The light in his eyes is utterly endearing - Patrick finds himself feeling affection like he hasn't felt in years. 

It's completely different to Will. Not better or worse - just vastly, incomparably different. Pete brings with him a whole new kind of falling in love, and Patrick is left dazed, blinded by Pete's outfit and the gleam of his smile. If he's not mistaken, the feeling is not unrequited. 

Patrick takes the cheque with no fanfare, much to Pete's frustration - he insists that he buy Patrick a drink, walking them to a bar nearer the beach. It's a gay bar, judging by the sheer volume of floral print worn by the men who spill from it, and Patrick smiles as the music and laughter ring through the air. 

"This is where I live," Pete announces, as he's bombarded by beautiful, grinning men, "and these are my friends." 

They chatter in Spanish that Patrick has no hope of following, shoving Pete towards the bar. Pete grabs Patrick's hand and tows him along. "Este es Patrick," Pete says, his fingers snaking to Patrick's hip and pulling him close. The group  _ ooh  _ and  _ aww _ , one man taking Patrick's chin and inspecting his face before nodding curtly. 

"I like this one," he says, "sensible, yes?" 

"I try my best," Patrick says, and the group laugh, immediately imitating Patrick's voice and cackling at the results. 

"A drink, my love?" Pete says, his accent thrumming through the words and sending a tingle down to Patrick's pants. He nods, leaning against the bar and attempting to get the attention of the bartender, who is deep in conversation with a blonde girl across the room. 

"Joe!" Pete shouts, snapping his fingers until the curly-haired man looks towards them and smiles. 

"Pete!" he shouts, "¿Qué te traigo?"

Patrick knows that one -  _ what can I get you. _ Pete gives his hip a squeeze and nods at Joe. "You order," he says with a smirk. "I want another piña colada." 

It's perhaps a little mean of Pete to make Patrick attempt to speak his broken Spanish in front of all Pete’s fluent friends, but Patrick would sooner look like an idiot than a coward, so he forms his words carefully and looks towards Joe. "¿Tomo una piña colada y un mojito, por favor?"

Joe stops in his tracks, fixing Patrick with a stare not unlike Arellano's. "¿Qué dijiste?" he asks, his voice low. Patrick's Spanish deserts him - he's left fumbling in English. 

"I'm sorry, I don't - I'm not -" he starts, but Joe begins to shout, barely noticeable above the band but loud and clear in Patrick's ears. He looks frantically at Pete, begging him for help, but Pete is just - laughing. When Patrick looks back at Joe, he's also laughing. 

“Just kidding, man,” he grins, “I’m from Brooklyn.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick scolds, relief and annoyance flowing through him at equal rates. 

“Your face!” Pete snorts, as Pete’s friends holler at them both. “Bless you, cariño,” he says, stroking a hand over the hair at the back of Patrick’s neck. “Perfect español, though.” 

Patrick scowls, watching Joe reach for the alcohol and wishing he’d do it quicker. Pete waves a hand at him. 

“Aw, don’t be...what would you call it?  _ Grumpy _ ,” he says, his fingers sliding to cup Patrick’s jaw. He rests their foreheads together, his nose nudging Patrick’s and his breath rushing over Patrick’s skin. “Do I get that kiss yet?” 

Patrick smiles, his lips brushing Pete's for a split second, feather-light and tantalising. Then, he pulls away. "No." 

Pete pouts, blinking his lined eyes and fluttering his eyelashes. "Not fair," he says, his hand dropping from Patrick's jaw, "I'll get it at soon." 

A few of Pete's friends grin, jabbing Pete in the ribs and making cooing sounds at them. "This is Rafael, and this is Maria," he says, pointing to a shirtless man and a disinterested woman consecutively, "and this is Daniel." He gestures to the large man that inspected Patrick when they first came in. 

Patrick shakes their hands, winded by the slap Daniel lands to his shoulder. "Where you from?" 

They talk for a few minutes, a tapestry of English and Spanish, and Patrick decides that he likes Pete's friends, relieved that his whole life isn't wrapped in crime and sex work. Pete supplies that Patrick's a friend of a friend, a tourist, and Patrick nods along, glad to keep up the pretence. People never react well when he tells them he murders for money. 

Eventually, they drift away - Daniel pats Pete on the chest and says something in Spanish, winking and walking off. Pete grins after him, then looks back at Patrick's puzzled expression. "He said they wanna give us some alone time," he smirks, "and that you're adorable." 

Patrick smiles, waves away the compliment. "They all seem lovely." 

"They are," Pete says, staring after them. "It's good to have - another life. You know?" 

Patrick knows more than he can possibly tell Pete, so he simply nods, taking a sip of his drink. He can feel the sweat beginning to pool in his collar - it's hot with all these bodies around. "I - might just pop to the toilet," Patrick says, sliding from the stool and searching for some sort of signage. 

"Pop to the toilet," Pete snorts, but points towards the far corner of the room. "Hurry back, my dear."

The bathroom is bright, empty after the crush of bodies and the noise of the band, and Patrick feels himself relax, Pete's affectionate  _ my dear _ ringing in his ears. Now seems to be the time to decide if he's ready for this - if he's got the guts to show some commitment. What Pete wants from him is unclear - perhaps he's banking on Patrick staying in Mexico, perhaps he's just got carried away, but whichever way Patrick tries to spin it, this is still a date. 

The man looking back from the mirror is still young. He's still passably handsome, he could still have an unlikely yet meaningful relationship with Pete. He wants Pete. He likes Pete. He wonders whether Will would like him. 

But Will liked everyone. Will saw light everywhere, Will saw goodness in everything. Will loved Patrick. Patrick, who is currently close to tears and staring into the grubby mirror in the bathroom of a gay bar. Patrick, who is falling in love with someone else. 

He shrugs the jacket from his shoulders and lets the cool of the bathroom flood over him, rolling up his sleeves to allow his forearms to air. Letting out a breath, he smooths the fabric of his shirt and folds his jacket over his elbow, lifting the hat from his head and flattening his rumpled hair. He decides that he can do this. Will isn't here - Pete is.

He exits the bathroom with renewed confidence, waving to Pete's friends as he shimmies past them and planning on giving Pete that kiss when he gets back. 

But Pete isn't waiting for him. Pete's twisted away from Patrick's empty stool, talking to a man with dark hair and a messy beard reaching down his neck. Patrick slows, clutching his hat tight and feeling the bounce in his step fall flat. 

Patrick never asked if Pete had a boyfriend - Pete didn't seem bothered by the concept of cheating. Perhaps Patrick's read this all wrong - perhaps Pete never planned on keeping this exclusive. He creeps closer, his heart sinking a little more when he sees the man's hand on Pete's thigh. 

Pete takes a long sip of his drink, and the man leans to kiss him once he's swallowed, their lips pushed tight and Pete's eyebrows locked into a frown. In that moment, Patrick begins to suspect that something isn't right. 

The man's hand is slowly creeping towards Pete's crotch, his smile lecherous. He can hear what they're saying but doesn't understand it, listening purely for tone. The man places a hand on Pete's forearm and strokes it - then, he brings Pete's hand to his crotch. Patrick boils. 

"Is everything alright?" he asks loudly, stepping close to Pete. The man looks up, releases Pete's forearm, and Pete snatches his hand back. 

"¿Lo conoces?" the man asks -  _ do you know him _ \- jerking his head in Patrick's direction. Pete nods, but says nothing. 

"Is this guy bothering you?" Patrick asks him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

Pete looks at him, his eyes conflicted, distraught. He shakes his head a little, but the panic is written all over him. "He's a friend of Da Costa," Pete says quietly. 

"Do you wanna keep talking to him?" Patrick questions. He doesn't want to put Pete in danger, but hell if he's going to stand by and let this guy take advantage of Pete. 

"Nene," the guy purrs, his hand still firmly upon Pete's thigh. "Leave us, gringo," he spits at Patrick. "This one is for me." 

Pete shakes his head. Patrick steps around Pete and looks the guy in the face. "He's not interested," Patrick tells him. "Leave him alone. Déjalo en paz." 

"You got - problem?" the man says, narrowing his eyes at Patrick. He stands up, the bar stool squeaking against the floor. He's a head taller than Patrick, and he smirks down at him. But every single person Patrick's ever fought has been bigger than him - he knows he can handle himself. Heavy weights fall harder.

He places his hat and jacket on the bar, looking up at the man and squaring his jaw. "I'd just like you to leave. But if you won't do that, then yeah, I'd say we have a problem." 

"Me voy a chingar," the guy says, shoving Patrick in the shoulder. Patrick thinks that means something along the lines of _ I'm going to kick your ass _ , but he's not entirely certain. 

"¿Quieres ir al aire libre?" Patrick tries, cocking his head to one side and gesturing towards the door. 

"No," the man says, "here." He pushes Patrick into a gap in the crowd and marches after him. Patrick can feel eyes on him - people part around them, cheering and whooping and shoving Patrick forward. Pete watches with wide eyes, his hands clutched tight to his knees. Patrick looks towards his opponent. 

He takes a heavy swing at Patrick, which Patrick easily steps away from. He swings again - he's a little drunk, and it's making him sloppy. Patrick takes a quick step forward and drives his fist into the man's chin, hard enough to make him stumble backwards but not so hard as to do any damage. He's not looking to hospitalise the man. 

The crowd roars, as does the man, his face turning purple and his eyes wild. "¡Traviesillo!" he exclaims, lunging towards Patrick. Patrick sidesteps it, and the man plunges into the crowd, who throw him back with a cheer. 

He turns on Patrick once again. When he reaches into his pocket, Patrick tenses - if the guy pulls a gun, there'll be trouble, but instead, he produces a flick knife, slashing it through the air a few times as if to demonstrate what he plans to use it for. The crowd gasps - the band have stopped playing, he can hear only the shouts of their audience. 

Patrick has only his fists. He revises his thoughts about hospitalising the man. 

When the man inevitably lurches towards him, Patrick reaches for his arm, catching it before the blade can touch his chest and wrenching it to one side, his other hand snapping into the man's face. He feels the crunch of bone under his knuckles, the spurt of blood over his hands, but lets the adrenaline take over, pulling the man towards him by the collar and driving his knee into the man's crotch. 

He doubles over, and Patrick shoves him as he goes, seizing the knife from his hand. Twirling it in his fingers, he looks around at the crowd he's gathered, who watch him expectantly. No Spanish comes to him, so he simply bows briefly - the band starts up again and the audience hollers, a few spitting on the man at Patrick's feet. 

Patrick looks towards the bar, but Pete isn't there - instead, he's striding over to Patrick, a stormy expression on his face and his hands clenched into fists. For a split second, Patrick panics, thinking perhaps this was far from the right response, but Pete simply steps over the body of the man, wraps his arms around Patrick's neck and pulls him into a kiss.

"That was the hottest thing I've ever seen," he says, crushing their lips together once more, his hands fisted in Patrick's hair. Patrick kisses back in earnest, his blood still racing and his chest filling with a pride that he hasn't felt in years. 

-

"Never had anyone beat up a guy for me," Pete says once they're back at the bar, the man dragged from the floor and kicked out into the street. Patrick laughs. 

"I didn't beat him up," he protests, "I - it was self-defence." 

"You broke his fucking nose," Pete says, but he's been grinning widely since the incident and Patrick can't help but grin along with him. "It was awesome." 

Patrick still has the knife clutched in his hand, and he slides it to Pete. "I think that's rightfully yours, now." 

Pete's gleeful as he takes it, flicks it open and shut until Patrick stops him for fear of losing an eye. "Thanks," he says, reaching for Patrick's hand and squeezing it.

Patrick shrugs. "Anyone would've done it. That guy was out of order." 

" _ Is this guy bothering you? _ " Pete imitates, " _ I'd say we have a problem _ . Although, you did ask him if he wanted to go outdoors," he sniggers as Patrick's cheeks flush. 

"In fairness, there was no section of the guidebook dedicated to fist fights," he reasons, taking a sip of his second mojito. The world is starting to feel faintly fuzzy, the lights brighter and his voice louder. "I'm sorry he acted like that towards you." 

Pete shrugs, like it's something he's used to. "I've told them I won't fuck their friends - they keep trying, though." 

"I'm sorry you have to do that," Patrick says, twining their fingers together and trying to imagine what it must be like to be treated in that way. Pete just leans to kiss him again, their tongues touching lightly. 

"Stop apologising," Pete whispers, "you're ruining the mood." 

They make out at the bar for a while, all careful touches and gentle words, like teenagers in the corner of the dance hall. Patrick feels as if he's high, the colours dancing around him and his head light, contented. All questions of risk and trust seem to slip away from him, leaving only the desire to kiss and fuck and love. 

Eventually, Pete takes his hand and pulls him away, waving to his friends and plastering himself to Patrick's side. "Let's get home," he murmurs in Patrick's ear, "I wanna do nasty things to you." 

Patrick wraps an eager arm around Pete's waist, nuzzling into Pete's face and biting at his earlobe. He wants to explore Pete, take him apart piece by piece and put him back together again. He's drunk enough to sport a dopey grin for most of the way home, to kiss in front of strangers and laugh at Pete's stupid comments, yet sober enough to remember the way the light falls across Pete's face and the fact that he's finally ready for this. 

Pete barely hesitates once they step from the muggy heat to the manufactured cool of Pete's house - he slides his hands to Patrick's hips and kisses him deeply, his lips soft and his touch gentle. Patrick’s eyes flutter open as he pulls away and disappears down the hall. 

Patrick’s hair is a mess, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and arousal, so he pauses to neaten himself as best he can and dab the sweat from his face before he stumbles after Pete, kicking off his shoes and feeling heat shooting to his crotch already. 

"Are you still a gentleman?" Pete asks as Patrick enters the bedroom. He's laid out on the bed wearing nothing but a smile, his clothes littering the floor. The soft light of the bedside lamp illuminates his toned limbs, the contours of his chest and the angle of his cheekbones. Patrick's on the bed in a second, pulling Pete into his arms. 

"I'm wavering," he says, kissing away Pete's shit-eating grin and groping for his half-hard cock. Pete moans into his mouth, grabbing for Patrick's ass and squeezing. Patrick's own cock twitches in his pants, and he grinds against Pete, his feet slipping against the sheets as he struggles for purchase. 

Pete fumbles with Patrick’s pants, fishing his cock out of them and toying with it until Patrick whines with want - then he ducks his head and takes it into his mouth, shuffling down the bed until Patrick's hovering over his chest. He sucks slowly, bringing a hand to cup Patrick's balls and another to hold the base of his cock steady as he licks over it. 

Patrick sinks to his knees, bracing them either side of Pete and watching his cock dip in and out of Pete's wet, waiting mouth. But as much as he loves the sight, his trousers are getting in the way and Pete's cock stands neglected between his legs, so Patrick climbs off him, holding up a finger and shimmying out of the remainder of his clothes. 

With a noise of annoyance, Pete sits up, licking his lips and frowning. "Are you good?" 

"Yeah, yeah," Patrick fumbles, crawling back towards Pete and eyeing his leaking cock. "Just -" he starts, straddling Pete's chest again but facing the opposite direction, before leaning to take Pete's cock into his mouth. 

Pete hums his approval and reaches once again for Patrick's dick, guiding it into his mouth and sending a breezing tingle over Patrick's skin. The feeling is almost overwhelming - a hard cock begging for his lips around it, his own nestled down Pete's throat. He thrusts his hips forward gently, feeling Pete's nose under his balls and Pete's hands groping at his ass, his thumb edging between Patrick's cheeks. 

He groans around Pete's cock, pulling back slightly to suck at the head, tasting the bitterness of precome on his tongue and lapping at it fervently. Pete cries out, his mouth loose around Patrick's cock and his hand landing a soft slap to Patrick's ass as if in punishment for teasing him so. "God - Patrick, stop," he gasps, pulling Patrick's cock from between his lips and wriggling out from underneath him. 

His hands cup Patrick’s ass lightly as he kneels behind him, his cock nestled in the groove between Patrick's cheeks. He leans over Patrick, pressing a kiss to Patrick's shoulder and two fingers to Patrick's hole. "Can I?" he mumbles. Patrick can feel the warmth of precome slip over his skin. 

Patrick tenses up, the ice of nerves crawling down his spine. Only Will fucked him, only Will saw him at his most vulnerable. Pete strokes a hand over the hard muscles of Patrick's shoulders, massaging gently as if trying to ease the tension. Then he's gone, taking the warmth of his body with him. 

Turning, Patrick sees that Pete's spread out on his back, his fingers fumbling with the lube and reaching to stretch himself open. His eyes are warm, reassuring, and Patrick feels a breath of relief rush through him. Pete stretches out a hand and Patrick takes it, drawing himself over Pete and kissing him hard, his fingers wrapped around Pete's cock. 

They simply kiss for a few moments as Pete works himself open, his tongue hot against Patrick's and his lips hungry. Patrick's fingers feel out every inch of him, his index finger slipping into Pete's hole alongside two of Pete's own. He's so tight - Patrick's cock fills up even further at the thought of pushing inside him. 

"I'm ready," Pete gasps, stroking the back of Patrick's neck as he leans to suck on Pete's nipple, "make love to me," he adds with a smirk. 

Patrick breathes a laugh, his hips sinking between Pete's legs as he parts them, his cock brushing Pete's and coming to rest behind his balls. He strokes the tip against Pete's hole, watching Pete writhe beneath him, his mouth hanging open and his eyes dark with lust. 

"I want you," Pete whispers, meeting Patrick's gaze and nodding. This time, Patrick knows he means more than sex. He leans to kiss Pete, capturing Pete's bottom lip between his own as he pushes his hips forward and sinks his cock inside Pete. 

With sweat gathering at his brow, he begins to thrust, feeling Pete clench wonderfully around him and his legs wrap around Patrick's hips, pinning their bodies together. He seals their mouths tight and feels the tiny groans Pete lets out with each drive of Patrick's hips, one hand propping him up and the other threaded through Pete's hair. 

It's the sweetest sex they've had yet, devoid of Pete's usual sharp tongue and his want for brutality, filled instead with slick kisses and yearning moans. Pete's hand moves slow on his cock, dragging strokes that Patrick can feel against his stomach, his cries increasing in volume as Patrick's cock nudges his prostate. Pete's no longer a place for Patrick to put his dick - Patrick wants to make him fall apart, to see him boneless and satiated under his touch. 

And he does. His hands grasp at Patrick's shoulders, sliding over Patrick's skin as if he can't quite feel enough of it at once. His cock is hard, red, leaking between them, and Patrick reaches to cover Pete's hand with his own, picking up the pace to match his thrusts. He knows Pete's getting close by the way his eyes keep squeezing shut, his kiss-bitten lips falling open as Patrick nibbles at the line of Pete's jaw. 

He cries out as he begins to come, clutching at Patrick's arm and clenching hard around his cock. The bubble of Patrick's world seems to burst as he follows Pete over the edge, his mind clouded with stars and his vision doubling, swirling before he slams his eyes shut. His hips stutter, and their mouths are left resting uselessly against one another, all energy sapped from them by the force of their release. 

They lay like that for a few seconds, breathing against one another, the scent of Pete's skin filling Patrick's lungs. His pulled-taut muscles begin to relax, and he presses his face to Pete's neck, letting his body melt against Pete's. He smiles when he feels the kiss Pete places in his hair, rolls like a rag doll when Pete slides from underneath him to pad into the bathroom. 

He buries his head in the pillows, his mind empty, contented. He can't remember the last time he felt so free. 

"What is it about receiving that you don't like?" Pete asks gently as they lay in bed together, Pete's fingers tracing patterns over Patrick's chest. 

Patrick sighs, shaking his head. "I don't know. It's silly really," he says, but Pete's blinking those big brown eyes at him and he can't help but tell the truth. "Will. Used to - y'know," he tails off. Pete lends him a wistful smile. 

"Ah. Gotcha," he says. 

"But, maybe when I'm ready," Patrick ponders, "I'd never really thought about it until you tried." 

"Take all the time you need, mi amor," Pete says, shutting his eyes and letting out a satisfied hum. "Your cock is good enough for me." 

Patrick laughs, and Pete splays his fingers out over Patrick's chest as if to soak up as much of the vibrations as possible. "I'm glad to hear it." 

"Do you ever think about quitting?" Pete asks all of a sudden, lifting his head and fixing an intense gaze on Patrick. "Like - settling down, getting a real job?" 

There's been little else Patrick's thought about over the past few years. "Yeah. If I don't stop doing it, I'll die doing it." 

Pete looks at him sadly, but nods all the same. "This was supposed to be a temporary thing, you know? But now I'm stuck." He laughs slightly, but there's an anguish in his eyes that Patrick knows well. "If I try to quit, they'll kill me." 

Patrick holds Pete closer and rests his cheek against Pete's temple. There's nothing he can say - Hurley gave him the same threat. Whether he can trust Pete or not, at least they have some shared life experience. Pete strokes over Patrick's chest, twisting to kiss him gently, and Patrick can't help but wonder what will happen when to him when he reveals his true purpose here in Tijuana. Perhaps he'll never know - perhaps he'll simply watch Pete dragged away in handcuffs. 

For now, he kisses Pete back and prays for time to slow down. 

-

Pete knows when El Verraco is angry. He can smell it, he can read the twitch of his brows and the heave of his chest, his glances thrown like knives. He pulls Pete into his house by his collar, and Pete takes a breath, readying himself to receive all of El Verraco's anger in the form of cruel names and harsh thrusts. 

He tries to think of Patrick as he's fucked over El Verraco's kitchen table, keeps his mind on the way Patrick held him, the soft look in Patrick's eyes as they lay together in the aftermath. El Verraco was never a cuddler. 

When it's over, he's usually allowed to shower, to scrub the remnants from his skin and feel clean once more - but this time, El Verraco keeps his hand pressed between Pete's shoulder blades, shoves his face to the wood before releasing him and doing up his belt. When Pete makes to shuffle away, he feels a hand fasten around his forearm. 

"Get dressed," he says in Spanish, shoving Pete towards his clothes, "I got something to say to you." 

This phrase alone strikes worry through Pete's heart. Pete never quite knows if today will be the day that El Verraco gets bored. He dresses quickly, quietly, wincing at the slick feeling between his cheeks. Still, he decided a long time ago that he'd take come over lead.

El Verraco creeps nearer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and the other on Pete's hip. Pete keeps his eyes down - the boss likes it when he does that. 

"I know what you did on Friday night," El Verraco whispers, tilting Pete's face towards him and squeezing his chin tight. Pete's stomach drops several levels. "You know I don't like people messing with my friends." 

"I did nothing," Pete says, and a slap lands hard across his cheek. 

"What were you doing with the sniper?" the boss asks slowly, laced with threat. 

"We're friends," Pete says, "only friends." 

"Bull _ shit _ ," Ell Verraco spits, "he broke my man's nose. For you." 

"They had an argument, it was nothing to do with -" 

El Verraco slaps him again, his cheek beginning to burn. "You are mine, whore," he hisses.

"I don't care for him, I swear," Pete says, begging himself to believe it, "he means nothing to me. I serve only you." 

Reaching into his jacket, El Verraco pulls out a gun. Pete takes a breath - there's a substantial chance he'll leave this place in a body bag. He steels himself for the burst of pain, the rush of darkness, but it never comes.

“Prove it,” El Verraco whispers, pressing the gun into his hands. “Let him do the job - then kill him.” 

Pete’s head clouds with panic. “But - I can’t use this, I -”

“Just point, and shoot,” El Verraco says. “If it’s not done, I’ll make both of you wish you’d shot the other.”

-

Pete kisses Patrick hard as soon as he steps over the threshold.

"Hey," Patrick laughs, "you okay?" He's heard Patrick's laugh quite often in the past few days - it sings like wind chimes, his whole face lighting up. 

"Yeah," Pete nods, grabbing for Patrick's slim hips and squeezing them. They fit perfectly in his palms. "Just - missed you." 

Patrick smiles, reaching for his sunglasses and hat. "Ready for some recon?" 

Pete really isn't - there's only so long he can stare at random people and places looking for nothing in particular - but with time slipping like sand through his fingers, he’ll take as much of Patrick’s company as he can get. 

"If it's any consolation, this will probably be the last," Patrick reasons, locking his front door behind them and letting Pete twine their arms together. 

"When is the kill?" Pete asks. 

"Saturday," Patrick says. Four days. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final strait - thanks so much for reading this far, I would love to hear any and all thoughts about the ending and the fic as a whole, and I love you all! 
> 
> Enjoy xx

Patrick feels ready. 

He's checked the maps a thousand times, calculating approximate times and leeway, the possibility that García might take a different route to his hotel, that he might change his plans, send a decoy. He's examined the area, the average windspeed, the angle, the visibility, he's examined police records to narrow down the type of vehicle García will arrive in, timed the average length of each stop to calculate how much breathing room he can give himself before he takes the shot. Everything must go to plan. The thought makes him a little nauseous. 

They spend the final day triple-checking everything Patrick's already worked out. With each hour that passes, Patrick reminds himself of his task - after García, he must turn, after García, he must destroy everything he and Pete have for the sake of a job. Patrick's past prepares itself for a recurrence. 

And so he makes the most of it. He leans into Pete's touches, returns his kisses, laughs at his godawful jokes. As the sun sets on another day, he places a hand on Pete's knee, smiling at the running road as Pete covers it with his own. 

-

"I'm gonna kill you," Pete laughs as Patrick lathers his head with shampoo, "you got more in my eyes than my hair." 

"You keep moving," Patrick says, pushing him under the shower stream and holding him there. "Stay the fuck still." 

"You're cute when you swear," Pete remarks, flicking suds at him and scrubbing at his own hair. 

"Fuck off," Patrick says, but steps under the stream too, running his hands up Pete's toned chest and leaning in for a kiss. They slide together as they touch, their bodies gleaming in the white bathroom light. 

Pete holds him lightly as they kiss, sliding his palms to Patrick's ass and massaging it gently. He’s a far cry from the man he was, a dopey look in his eyes as he pulls back for a split second and pecks Patrick on the nose. He can’t let this man go without giving him everything he has. Patrick decides, in that moment, that life is too short. 

Placing his own hand over Pete's, he pushes Pete's fingers between his cheeks, pressing back into them, looking up at Pete and biting his lip. "You can fuck me, if you like," he says, distorted through the water but spreading a grin across Pete's face all the same.

"You sure?" he asks, his gaze flicking between Patrick's eyes.

"Yeah," Patrick says, stroking a hand over Pete's cock and watching it twitch with interest. Pete gives him a positively devilish look and excuses himself to find lube, shamelessly dripping water all over the tiles as he steps out of the shower and makes for the bedroom. 

In the moments he has alone, Patrick pushes a finger into himself, reminding himself of the feeling, of the intimacy. Will was always so gentle, so knowing of Patrick’s needs, his boundaries. But height had made it impossible to fuck standing; Patrick feels better for it, a firm line drawn between Pete and Will. Pete is not a replacement - he’s an alternative. Patrick feels the same butterflies in his stomach, though. 

As Pete returns, Patrick turns his back to him and pushes his ass out in a way that he hopes is sexy - Pete just laughs, pinching his cheek as he hops back into the shower, lube in hand.

Pete opens him up with gentle fingers, an arm wrapped around his chest and his mouth dropped to Patrick's shoulder. Patrick leans back into it - breathing through the stinging sensation and focusing solely on the feeling of someone else inside him, someone who isn't Will, someone he's constructed a whole new kind of love for. 

"You ready for another?" Pete asks, a third finger brushing Patrick's hole. Patrick nods - he can feel Pete's hard cock grazing the small of his back, the want to be filled growing with each passing moment. He strokes his own cock slowly, relaxing his body as far as possible without falling over. 

"Put it in," Patrick says finally, tired of all the waiting and pushing his ass towards Pete. 

"How romantic," Pete says, but removes his fingers, his cock pushing slowly between Patrick's cheeks until the head nudges at his hole. Pete presses kisses along Patrick's shoulder blades as he slides home, every ridge of Pete's cock sending shivers through Patrick's spine. He's so full, so feeling, his breaths short and sharp until Pete strokes a hand down his side and he remembers to relax.

"Okay," Patrick says, gaining confidence by the second, "move." 

Very slowly, Pete begins to thrust, short bursts of his hips pressing against Patrick's ass. Patrick leans his head against the glass and touches himself lightly, letting out a moan when Pete grazes his prostate and Patrick remembers exactly why he liked getting fucked. 

He reaches back and slides his hand between their bodies, touching where Pete's cock is nestled inside him, feeling his own tightness, the flexibility of his own body. Water still slides over Pete's shoulders, hot over Patrick's fingertips, and he tips his head back to kiss Pete. 

Pete pulls out before he comes - Patrick didn't ask him to, but he's grateful nonetheless - and shoots instead over Patrick's back, washing him down with the spray of the shower before reaching for Patrick's cock and finishing him off. It's oddly surreal - Patrick feels exposed, but not vulnerable, open, but not violated. He turns to kiss Pete, and instead is pulled into a hug. 

"Hey - I'm okay," Patrick laughs, patting Pete's shoulder. 

"I know," Pete says, pulling back and giving him a smile, "but - just in case." 

-

Pete stares at the gun. 

It sits on his dresser, smug and gleaming, the barrel staring at him as he shifts in his seat. The dread that claws at his mind is like nothing else - he wants to run from it, to get in his car and drive as far as he can to escape this evil, this abomination. 

He's never killed anything before. He's watched things die - watched El Verraco strangle a stray cat, watched him drive nails through the eyes of a man, watched him break a child's neck - but to see himself blow a hole through a person's skull is something else entirely. He can't do it, he won't do it. And yet, the punishment if he does not keeps him awake at night. He knows pain, he knows humiliation and indignity - he knows it would be nothing compared to what he would face if he fails this challenge. 

Patrick had done it. Pete remembers how he shot the woman without hesitation, how sure he was that he was right to do so. He'd done it to be kind, to be merciful - there would be nothing merciful about leaving Patrick alive to experience El Verraco's wrath. 

The scene plays out in his mind - the feeling of the gun in his palm, the squeeze of the trigger beneath his fingers, the crack of the bullet. He imagines Patrick's face, betrayed by the man with whom he shared his losses and his gains, his yearnings and his regrets. He imagines Patrick's eyes blank and greying, his body left to rot in the searing heat of the desert. 

He shoves the gun back in the drawer, raking his hands over his face and trying to calm the deep anxiety that has settled in his bones, the way his throat tightens and his chest contracts each time he thinks of what he must do. He makes his way back to the bedroom. 

Patrick is sound asleep, the covers strewn around him, his pale skin glowing a near-blue in the morning light. Pete watches him for a few moments, marvelling at this murderer, this killing machine, looking so peaceful, so content. The dimples in the corners of his mouth curve his lips into a faint smile, his brow smooth and his eyebrows raised. 

Climbing into bed beside him, Pete curls an arm over his chest, his fingers brushing through the fuzz over Patrick's stomach. He can't make Patrick bleed, he can't make him hurt, not when there's an ache in his chest for Patrick, an adoration. Patrick stirs in his arms, moulding his body to Pete's before relaxing once again. Pete loves him, of that he's sure. 

-

The day of the kill dawns bright and clear. 

The pale sunlight filters through the blinds, casting a golden-grey glow over the room. Patrick wakes easily - he was barely asleep, instead floating on the edge of consciousness as his mind went over every single piece of information he'd accumulated. Pete drove him home the night before, after a day of eager sex and few words. Patrick kissed him hard before he left. 

But the press of Pete's lips has faded and Patrick's sentimental side burns away with the rising sun. He sits up, stretches, showers, dresses. He is no longer himself - he lives only to kill. 

His rifle has sat tight in his closet for the past few months, but now he opens the case, runs his fingers over the metal. He is both relaxed and wound as tight as muscle, his mind going through his list of preparations with militant deliberation. He ignores the plans held in his briefcase - he knows them by heart. 

The heat is moderate, threatening as Patrick steps out into it. Pete's car is outside - he sits with Diéguez and Da Costa in the back, his eyes as blank as Patrick's mind. They're there to check that the job is done - there’s no need. Patrick will shoot himself in the head if it isn't. 

He gets into the car in silence, acknowledging the others with a glance before staring ahead at the road. He wishes he was driving - Pete goes too fast, too nervy, flinching at each car that comes too close. But there's no changing plates this time, no great want for secrecy - this both calms and agitates Patrick. He's used to his way, and his way alone. 

It's barely eight thirty by the time they reach the site - García, if Patrick has calculated correctly, will travel through the checkpoint at eleven. The intelligence he was given suggests that García will stop for lunch after being on the road, and his arrival time at hotels has been consistently early afternoon. He won't leave early, and it will take him forty minutes to reach the checkpoint. Patrick keeps the traffic news refreshing on his phone. 

They turn off just before the checkpoint and drive through the town, heading steadily uphill as the houses begin to thin and the expanse of desert begins. The track runs into dirt and they crawl over shrubs towards a well in the landscape which will keep them hidden from the road. The ridge stretches steeply alongside them, a pathway to the sun. 

When they slow to a stop, Patrick releases a controlled breath, his mind steady, clear. Then, he steps out into the desert. 

Their eyes remain on him as he sets himself up, laying the blanket in the sand and stretching out next to his gun. He hates the company, it tugs his mind from the kill. He trains his sight upon the checkpoint - he's a speck in the distance to them. 

"You forgot to load it," Diéguez supplies from several feet behind him. Patrick turns, glares, deciding not to merit that with a response. Diéguez backs off. 

As the clock edges towards eleven, he begins the preparations, pushing in his ear plugs and pulling on his gloves. He opens the bolt slowly, listening to the sweet slide of metal, and loads it carefully. Once the lever is back in place, he relaxes into the ground, melting with the scorched earth and staring through the scope. Now, it's a waiting game. 

Eleven o'clock comes and goes, and a numb sense of worry begins to seep through Patrick's body. The stakes are insurmountable, his life cradled in his hands, resting on the flight of a bullet. For a fleeting second, he thinks of Lottie, of her distress when she sees her father's body on the news, his life bared for the world to see. Then, he sees the car in the distance, and all other thoughts leave his mind. 

It's him. The plates match the photographs. Through his binoculars, Patrick sees that García isn't in the front seat. If Patrick is to succeed, García must leave the vehicle. The car begins to slow. There is no backup plan. 

There are six cars between them and the checkpoint, all crawling along the road. Several are waved through without issue - one is searched, the white family inside looking panicked as they step out of the vehicle and the soldiers sift through their belongings. Eventually, they too are sent on their way. Patrick presses the safety off. 

The stock burns hot against his cheek. He feels the deadened wind on his face, takes a sip of the dry air. The car rolls into his sight. 

A soldier waves an orange flag, motioning for the car to stop. They won't be searched for long, provided they're not stupid enough to carry narcotics, but the driver gets out. Patrick waits for the signal, for the soldiers to open the back doors - but none comes. 

The driver gets back into the car, talking to the soldier through the open window. A flash of barely-suppressed panic bursts in Patrick's chest - they're going to move on. He trains his sight upon the back windows; they gleam in the sunlight, a solid white glare that stings Patrick's eyes. He can't see an inch through it. The driver winds the window up. 

In a split second, Patrick makes the decision. The brink clears Patrick's mind, the abyss of failure makes his body settle into the sand and the breath rush out of him. Time slows - he pulls the trigger. 

Patrick's life up to this point has not lasted as long as the flight of the bullet. The car begins to move, to escape, to plunge Patrick six feet underground, but then it stops abruptly. In the wake of the singing thunder of the bullet, the back window explodes. 

Soldiers swarm to it, pulling open the back doors. A man falls out. Patrick's never been so relieved to see the face of a drug lord. He did it. 

He pulls away from the gun, pressing his fingers into his eyes and finally allowing himself to breathe, drinking in the air like an elixir. Red covers the hands of the soldiers below, a neat hole decorating the side of García's head. Patrick rolls over where he lays, his lips fighting an elated smile as he peels the gloves from his hands. Perhaps he'll live to see another birthday. 

He looks up when he hears the scuff of boots over the sand.

Pete stands in front of him, his shadow shrinking in the midday sun. In his hands, he holds a gun. There are tears down his face as he lifts it towards Patrick. 

A flurry of thoughts flit through his mind - but at this precise moment, all that's on his mind is survival. 

"Pete," he says carefully, "put down the gun." 

Pete shakes his head, wiping his eyes on his wrist. "They - they ordered me. They'll kill me if I don't," he says, his breaths ragged and his words warped by sobs. 

Patrick glances down the slope and towards the car, where Da Costa stands, watching.  _ That's  _ why he's here. Patrick sits up a little, his boots scraping the dust. "I know you don't want to do this," Patrick says, eyeing the shivering barrel of the gun in Pete's hands. "Please - you don't have to." 

"I  _ do  _ have to!" Pete cries, his voice wracked with distress, "or we'll both die! This - this is - mercy." 

Patrick considers his options. He could kill Pete and make a run for it. He'd be shot before he made it a hundred yards. He could save Pete the trouble and offer to do it himself. But this is clearly a loyalty test for Pete - if Pete himself isn't seen doing it, he's still for the chop. 

He could let Pete do it. He could leave it all behind. He could leave his daughter without a father. He could burden Pete with what it means to take a life, abandon him with what it feels like to be responsible for the death of a loved one. He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. 

"Patrick," Pete says quietly, "forgive me. Please. Forgive me." He raises the gun and aims it at Patrick's head. "I'm sorry." 

"I work for MI6," Patrick blurts. "I was hired to infiltrate the cartel." 

Pete stops dead. "What?" 

"MI6 and the Mexican secret service hired me to earn the trust of Arellano and then turn on him." 

"No," Pete says, shaking his head, "that's - that's - no you weren't." 

Patrick sighs, watching Pete's eyes fill with horror. "I'm sorry I lied to you." 

"You piece of shit!" Pete shouts suddenly, "what the  _ fuck _ ?!" 

"¿Qué está pasando?" Da Costa shouts, beginning to climb the slope. Pete replies in Spanish, his raging eyes still fixed on Patrick. 

"Pete," Patrick tries, "I promise, nothing about our relationship was faked, I care about you, and -" 

"Shut up!" Pete shouts, raising the gun once more and gesturing to Patrick's holster. "Take it out, put it on the ground," he orders. 

"Pete, I-" 

"Do it!" 

Patrick does, watching Pete carefully as he puts the weapon on the sand and slides it towards Pete. "Pete, I promise, I -" 

"I trusted you, Patrick Vaughn," Pete snarls, "you deserve this. You deserve everything you get." 

Patrick makes to protest one last time, and Pete fires the gun. 

The crack of the bullet rings in Patrick’s ears and he's knocked back to the floor, his vision swimming. A few seconds after, the pain sets in. 

His shoulder is in pieces. It sears as if held to an open flame, his vision clouding with black spots and the world around him spinning with each throb of blood that soaks his shirt. He tries to move his right arm - it doesn't work. 

His throat is raw from his own cry of agony, his mind struggling to bend itself around the wedge of pain that cleaves his head in two. He blacks out for a few seconds as he feels the shattered fragments of bone grinding against one another. People are shouting - he can barely hear them. 

"Boss will take your skin off," someone snarls in his ear, and he believes them. "We put you in car." 

"No," he hears Pete say, "put him in the trunk. Cajuela." 

Patrick raises his head, watching Pete with wide eyes and gritted teeth. "Pete - please -" 

But Pete simply spits something at him in Spanish, grabbing his ankles and wrapping a cord tight around them. When he yanks on Patrick's right hand, Patrick's world crumbles into unimaginable pain, his body locking up and his jaw slamming shut tight. His wrists are pressed together and he wriggles pathetically on the ground, his shirt sodden with blood. 

The desert pitches around him as he's lifted from the ground, a pair of hands set tight to his calves and another underneath his spine. Each jolt of his mangled shoulder makes his body burn, the muscled torn and flexing against shards of bone. He decides it's not happening, that it's the PTSD setting in. Perhaps he'll wake up and Will will be there, telling him it's all going to be okay. He tries to picture Will's voice - he's forgotten what it sounds like. 

He's stuffed into the trunk of the car, a hand shoving at his shoulder and someone laughing at the scream he lets out. He sees Pete's face and associates it with help, his mouth trying to find words. Instead, Pete spits at him, then shuts the trunk. The world goes dark. 

-

The light is blinding. He's pulled out into it, circles searing into his eyes and his shoulder blazing with the movement. People growl in Spanish around him, the sky reeling as they carry him into a building, a warehouse - he's tossed to the floor, the bones of his shoulder crushed underneath him and his own scream of pain echoing in his ears. When his vision clears, he sees El Verraco. 

"Son of a bitch," the man cries, kicking Patrick in the stomach. "¡Vete a la mierda!" All Patrick can do is roll onto his back to ease the unbearable pain in his shoulder. 

"Who you working for?!" El Verraco shouts, leaning to gnash his teeth in Patrick's twitching face. "I want names!"

Patrick says nothing, and gets a kick to the head for it. His nostrils fill with the smell of his own blood. 

He hears Pete's voice from across the room, alarmed, nervous. El Verraco agrees to whatever it is, leaning down next to Patrick and pulling a knife from his pocket. Patrick shuts his eyes in resignation as the blade nears his chest. 

Instead, El Verraco cuts his shirt open, ripping the blood-thick fabric away from his skin. He thinks, for a brief second, that the man might rape him, but he feels fingers prod the raw, open skin around the bullet wound and hears El Verraco bark several orders. "We must keep you alive for the boss, yes?" he says, patting Patrick's shoulder and letting out a laugh as Patrick convulses with pain. 

As El Verraco stands, Patrick gazes at his surroundings - it's an empty warehouse, large boxes piled in the corner. Patrick wonders if they contain cocaine. He could use a little right now. 

A chair is dragged to stand next to his head - Patrick feels the vibrations through the ground, jarring his brain - and he's yanked off the floor and shoved into it, the binding around his wrists is cut and his arm is pushed back to allow access to his shoulder. 

Patrick hopes for bandages, perhaps a sling, at least a cloth to stop the bleeding - instead, Da Costa produces a metal rod and a blowtorch. Patrick tastes bile at the back of his throat. 

Someone grabs his jaw and pulls his mouth open, forcing a folded belt between his teeth. The broad hiss of the torch sends viceral terror to his core, and bites down hard when he sees the tip of the rod glowing bright white - his fear is deafening, coursing through his stricken brain. Da Costa grins, waving the rod in front of his eyes, then pointing it at the seething wound in his shoulder and pushing the tip into it.

The pain is unlike anything else. It eclipses his sense of self, turns him into a writhing, crying animal, willing to do anything to make it stop. He screams his agony into the belt, clenches his one working fist and drops his head forward, avoiding the malicious smiles of his attackers. 

El Verraco leans and takes hold of his hair, dragging his head back and pinching Patrick's windpipe between his fingers. "You gonna talk?" 

Patrick remains silent, the belt still tight between his teeth. He looks wildly for Pete, for any sign of aid, but Pete stands towards the back of the room, arms folded and expression blank. El Verraco follows Patrick's gaze. 

"Ah. You fuck him, yes?" he asks, breath hot over Patrick's face. "He is good. Tight. Did you tell him things, sicario? Did he know your little plan?" 

Patrick shakes his head quickly, but cries out when Da Costa touches the still-glowing tip of the rod to his chest. El Verraco fits a hand under Patrick's chin. 

"Here is what will happen. We hurt you. We make you beg. We make you talk. Tomorrow, the boss will come. We film your death - agonising, it will be. As for him," El Verraco jabs a finger in Pete's direction, "better safe than sorry, as you say." 

He shouts something in Spanish and several men turn on Pete. Pete stumbles back, fumbling with his words, and Patrick makes a noise of protest, his tongue pressed into place by the leather. The men pounce on Pete. Patrick watches, helpless, as they drag him outside. 

"Open your eyes," El Verraco growls, and Patrick does, looking into the man's withered face. "We have broken men ten times stronger than you in this building. You will talk." 

Patrick doesn't reckon more pain will make much difference. Patrick is wrong. 

-

They strap his aching body to a board, his hands secured at either side. They blindfold him, plunging him into endless darkness, sending primal panic to his core. They tape his forehead in place. 

His sight is his strength. Without it, he can't read, can't see what they're about to do to him, can only cower in fear of the pain that will come. He hasn't been so terrified since he was shown a video of his husband locked in a similar warehouse. 

A hand grabs his chin and he jumps violently, a thumb pushing into his mouth, bitter and dirty. "Where are you based," a voice growls, inches from his ear, "I want details." 

Patrick stays silent, just as his training taught him. He's supposed to reach a nirvana when he's being threatened - he knew agents who could send themselves into a dream world when under interrogation, who could remove themselves from all pain. Patrick is not one of those agents. 

The water hits him hard, cold and knife-like against his face. It covers his nose and mouth, running to the back of his throat, chilling him from the inside. He gasps for air, instead getting a mouthful of water and choking on it violently, no oxygen coming to him as he coughs down more water. He feels within touching distance of death, his head losing clarity as the life is sapped from him. He can't breathe. He can't  _ breathe _ .

Then it's over. His lungs heave, attempting to expel the water that fills his throat, and he spits it over himself, wrenching his own shattered shoulder with the effort. 

"I will ask again," El Verraco says, and his cheek explodes with pain as a palm strikes across it, "where are you based?" 

Patrick hacks his lungs sore, but says nothing. The the water starts again. 

The fear is visceral. His body loses sight of where he is, why he's here, the need for air consuming his consciousness, reducing him to a crying child. The water fills his nose, his windpipe, it's never going to end, he's going to die and his mind begins to shut itself off in preparation as his body writhes. 

It stops again, abruptly, and he rakes his lungs dry once again. A drop of water hits his forehead and he convulses, panic rushing through him. "Please," he croaks, his throat rubbed raw, "no more. No more." 

"Tell me where you're based." 

"I landed in San José del Cabo," he cries, "I met with the police there. There's no base in Tijuana." 

"So who are you working for?" 

"The - the Centre de - de - the secret service." 

"How much do they know about us?" The voice is closer, warm and wet in Patrick's ear. 

"I don't know!" he pleads, but the water comes once again. He screams through it, feeling the water flow inside him, a razor blade ripped around his lungs. It doesn't stop until he begins to black out. 

Rinse, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. 

He tells them everything he knows. 

-

When they tip him to the floor, he's broken. 

He barely has the strength to support himself as he vomits water over the cold concrete. It rises suddenly to meet his face, cracking him in the jaw. He can't see, he can't feel. All sense of self has been washed out of him. He vomits once more, his throat like an open wound. 

Someone hauls him upright, and he leans his full weight on them, his legs useless beneath him and his chest heaving. He starts to move, swaying one way and then the other, his shoulder a dull, gnawing ache. They don't cuff him - there's no need.

The arms suddenly let go of him and he feels the dropping sensation in his gut, his body fizzing as it hits the floor. He feels a wall next to him - he plasters himself to it gratefully, taking small gulps of blissful air that strike like matches on his sandpaper throat. A hand yanks at his head and he stills with fear - perhaps it's the water, anything but the water - yet they simply remove the sodden blindfold. 

The room is dark, lit only by the slits of an air vent above them. Patrick's eyes sting. Patrick's everything stings. 

He focuses only on breathing. He's balanced on a knife-edge, even the touch of his soaked clothes making him flinch, the memory of the water slicing into his mind. He can smell the copper of blood, his chest washed clean but his arm sticky with it. He tries to move his fingers - his shoulder howls.

He understands, now, why the woman begged. A bullet through his skull would be a blessing. 

Moments later, he hears movement from across the room. The rustle of clothes, the scuffle of feet. Patrick freezes, terror tearing through him. He stares blindly into the darkness until he hears a cough and hides his face in the crook of his elbow. 

“Vaughn,” Pete’s voice says, and Patrick remembers him - remembers how he felt about Pete, how he lied to Pete. “Are you alright?”

Patrick can't find the words to respond. He's fairly sure he won't survive the night. 

"I've seen guys go crazy after a couple hours on the board," Pete says. He sounds hoarse, pained. Patrick wonders what they did to him. "Did you talk?" 

It's a stupid question. Anyone would confess to anything after twenty minutes of that. "Yes," he says, and his voice is little more than a rasp, a shaped breath with no force behind it. 

"They beat me up," Pete states, and Patrick's fingers slip on the edges of caring, "they thought I'd helped you. How could you fucking do this to me, Vaughn?" 

The name cracks around the room. Patrick hates it. "I'm sorry," is all he can say. 

"I thought you liked me," Pete says, "I thought you actually had fucking - feelings." 

Patrick has feelings, and they're all on fire. "I do like you," he says, "I didn't want to. But I do." 

"How much of it was true," Pete hisses, "that stuff about your husband. Did you just make it up so I'd feel fucking sorry for you?"

He wishes he had. He wishes Will was at home waiting for him. He wishes Lottie had a father whose bloodstains aren't smeared across the Mexican desert. "No. He was murdered." 

There's a few moments of silence before Pete lets out a breath. "What happened?" 

Patrick leans against the wall, his head throbbing. He remembers it all too well. He coughs some more, fluid still aching in his lungs. "I used to work for MI6." 

"Used to?" 

"Yeah, used to. I was - I was a field agent to begin with - that's where I learned to shoot - and I was, y'know, decent. Confident as anything." Patrick pictures that bright young man fresh out of University, the praises of his superiors ringing in his ears. He died a sudden and brutal death. 

"I met Will a few years after I started at MI6 and he - he changed my life, in all honesty. I never thought I'd settle down, I would just jump from lover to lover and I liked it that way. But he just - he was wonderful." Patrick wants him, wants his arms around him more than ever. "We - we got a house, we got married. They were the best years of my life." 

"But then there was this job. They were a minor terrorist group, they'd been making threats directly to MI6. They were amateurs, but they knew their computers. I headed the operation to bring them down. I was set for big things - at least, that's what they kept telling me. This was my biggest task yet. 

"They'd promised me, from the very beginning, that safety measures had been put in place to make sure my family was safe. But - I'm not a tech guy - but they'd hacked the database with all the information about the agents on it. They found out who I was, who my family was. So, one day I walk into work and they've been sent a video. It was Will - he was - he was with them, he was being held at gunpoint.

"So - so," Patrick says, his wrecked voice beginning to splinter with oncoming tears, "I panicked. I just - I couldn't believe that it was him, my Will. They wanted bank codes in exchange for his life. My superiors told me it was a bluff. I didn't want to take that risk. So - I gave them everything they wanted. They took millions of pounds. They said he’d be safe. 

"The next day, we identified the location of the recording and I headed the team. We barged in, and he was just - there. Dead, on the floor. They'd shot him and made off with the money." Patrick will never, ever forget the way Will's pale, sunken face looked as it stared towards the rafters. He will never forget telling his second-in-command to call an ambulance, he will never forget the look of absolute pity the man returned. There's tears on his face, now, hot and unrelenting, self-hatred burning from his core. 

His memories of the countless hearings and conferences overwhelm him - the demand to hear his crushing loss over and over, the monumental blame they placed upon him. The guilt will follow him like a zeppelin until he dies. So, for the rest of the night.

"They're going to kill me tomorrow, aren't they," he says, dwelling on it for a few moments. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, feeling more tears slip down his face. He's faced danger, but never certain death. Now he thinks on it, he's afraid. 

Pete's silence indicates his agreement. "It's not the worst they can do." 

Across the world, Lottie is without a father. Patrick wonders what she'll think of him when he's gone, in ten, twenty years time - will she tell people about her ignorant, inconsiderate father? Will she resent him, hate him? Or will he simply disappear from memory, as Will inevitably did. He's not sure which is worse. 

"I have a daughter," he blurts into the darkness. He has to keep talking, make the most of the last person on earth who might lend him an ear. 

"You do?" Pete says. "Is she yours?" 

"Yeah," he says. He decided a long time ago that DNA doesn't mean a thing. "She's - she's everything. And now I'm going to leave her on her own." 

"How old is she?" 

"Four. Five, now, actually. I missed her birthday." 

"So why are you in Mexico hunting drug lords," Pete asks. Patrick's not entirely sure he knows the answer to that. 

"I - MI6. They found out that I'd gone freelance. They said I do them this favour, or I go to prison. They threatened my daughter." The memory of Hurley’s mocking eyes sends a rush of aching anger through him. They played him. 

"Why did you stay in the business? Why not get a real job?" 

Patrick coughs, his lungs still burning and his shoulder jarring. "Shooting is the only thing I've ever been good at." 

"Did MI6 tell you that," Pete says flatly. Patrick's worn out mind works through the thought. Perhaps there's something in it. "We're just drones, man," Pete continues. "And this is where we end up." 

Patrick nods his agreement at the wall. The crushing sadness has slipped away, leaving emptiness. 

He hopes he's dead by morning. 

-

Pete wakes to a trickle of sunlight through the thin vent in the ceiling. His whole body aches - he needs a piss, he needs a drink, he needs something to fill the aching void that his stomach has become. 

They beat him until it became clear that he didn't know a thing - he can feel the crack of dried blood on his face as he yawns and the throb of bruises on his ribs. He considers it a blessing that he managed to avoid a broken nose. 

His hands are bound with a cable tie, the delicate insides of his wrists pressing together. The tips of his fingers are starting to go a little numb - his knuckles are scabbed, sore. He traces them with his fingers, glad for the reminder that he fought back. He's been lucky - he may still walk out of here alive. The same cannot be said for Patrick. 

In the corner of the room, there sits a man Pete barely recognises. His shirt hangs from his shoulders, his knees are pulled to his chest, his head leans limply against the concrete. He's either dead, or very close to it. Pete pushes away from the wall and crawls closer to Patrick. 

"Vaughn," he hisses. Patrick doesn't stir. Pete's reaches out to him with his bound hands, hoping he won't be touching a corpse. 

Patrick's skin has a sheen of sweat shimmering across it; it's tinged with grey, all colour drained from his cheeks. His lips are dull, his eyes are shut. Pete kneels next to him, smoothing a hand over his good shoulder. 

"Vaughn, come on, cabrón," he says, giving the man a small shake. He feels a rush of relief as he notices the motion of Patrick's chest - it rises and falls rapidly, erratically - but he's alive, at least. For now, anyway. 

Pete reaches out to press the back of his palm to Patrick's cheek. He's burning up, his skin clammy. His face twitches under Pete's palm, his eyes flitting open for a second before rolling back into his skull. 

"Vaughn," Pete whispers again, willing him to wake up, to slow his speeding heart rate. 

Finally, his eyes open, flitting around the room and resting on Pete's face. He visibly jumps, shrinking closer to the wall and away from Pete. It surprises Pete how much it hurts. 

"Hey - hey, it's Pete," he says, "it's okay." 

Patrick's breathing doesn't relent, rushing through his open lips, the rattle of phlegm in his throat. He looks like a dead man. Pete reaches for his hand and clasps it between his own. Patrick's fingers remain motionless.

Voices sound from outside the room. Pete snatches his hands back and pushes himself as far away from Patrick as he can, watching Patrick stir at the loss and his eyes search for Pete. 

Someone bangs on the door, then unlocks it, the rusted hinges squealing as it's forced open. It's Diéguez and Da Costa, closely followed by El Verraco. They talk in Spanish, the light flooding in behind them. Pete winces. 

Da Costa heads straight for Patrick. "Hey - no," Pete says, "he's not well, he needs rest -" 

"Shut the fuck up," Da Costa snaps as he hooks his hands under Patrick's arms and heaves him to his feet. 

"He's dying already, you can't hurt him any more," Pete protests, but Diéguez is already making for him. He gets a heavy kick in the ribs before he, too, is pulled upright. 

"Sorry, brother," Diéguez says, "we don't need you anymore." 

Pete looks from his pitying eyes to El Verraco's glare. "I told you, I know nothing. I told you. I -" 

Diéguez slams his fist into Pete's face and secures a hand around the back of his neck, shoving him towards El Verraco. Pain explodes across Pete's head, his eyes blurring with tears and blood beginning to run down his face. Looks like he didn't avoid a broken nose after all. 

El Verraco grabs his collar and shakes him, pulling Pete's hands from where they're clasped over his face. "You are a filthy whore. You live by my hand - you die by my hand." 

Pete realises what El Verraco is going to do a fraction of a second too late. He sees the flash of steel and reels backwards. Diéguez grabs the shoulders of his shirt and hold him still as the knife is plunged into his stomach.

He writhes in Diéguez's grip as El Verraco punctures his skin again and again with the short blade. Pete's shirt glows bright with his own blood. 

When it’s over, when El Verraco steps back and raises the glittering red blade, Pete's panic transforms into pain like he's never experienced. He clutches his abdomen as if to hold it together, his hands growing hot with blood and his knees buckling underneath him. Only Diéguez's hold keeps him upright. 

El Verraco's face is suddenly an inch from his own, the man's breath rushing over his face as he stares in horror. "I would kill you," he hisses, his hand gripping Pete's chin, "but I don't think you deserve it. Instead, I think you will rot in the desert. It's a shame - you were an enjoyable toy." 

The kiss he plants on Pete's lips is laced with Pete's own blood, his broken nose shrieking with the force of El Verraco's advance. Pete turns his head, shoves at the man's chest, but he stands firm, pushing his tongue into Pete's mouth. He smacks Pete's ass as he pulls away. Pete has never felt smaller. 

Diéguez drags him out of the room. El Verraco doesn't give him a second glance. The words he said to Patrick the night before echoes in his ears. They're just drones. 

Da Costa has Patrick bound to a chair in the corner of the warehouse. He doesn't look conscious - he lies limp as a rag doll, his head tipped to one side and his blood-soaked arm curled in his lap. Pete's on his own. 

His legs can barely support his own weight as he's hauled across the warehouse and out into the heat, the sunlight a white hot poker to his corneas. His body screams, the wounds pulling and stretching as Diéguez manhandles him towards his pickup truck, wrenching open the door and shoving at Pete's shoulder. 

Pete drapes himself over the back seats, his vision clouding for a moment as his gut clamours with pain. The world finally begins to stop spinning, the air conditioning vent in the roof providing a point of stability as he breathes through the agony. He wonders why he's bothering - Diéguez will no doubt shoot him when he dumps him in the middle of nowhere. This pain is the last thing he'll ever feel. He savours it. 

He stares at what he can see of the azure sky through the windows, the highest point blushing pink if he stares too long. He'll miss it, he decides. He tells himself he won't miss Patrick. 

Soon, Patrick will be dead too. His little daughter will have no dad coming home to her. He's a liar and a traitor but Pete aches for him, for his crushing failure, his agonising death. If Pete could do it over, perhaps he'd have shot Patrick in the head instead of the shoulder. 

Diéguez glances at him periodically in the rear view mirror, his eyes blank, shark-like. He told Pete once that he had his back - but Pete's learnt in the hardest way that there are no friends or enemies in this business - only fools. The sky outside is so beautiful, so infinite. Pete feels his own mortality deep in the recesses of his mind. 

The truck eventually grinds to a halt, and Diéguez leaves his seat. The chill of the air conditioning is sucked into the unforgiving heat as he opens the back door and grabs at Pete's feet, hauling his broken body out of the vehicle. He hits the dirt with a whimper of pain, the sand like hot coal beneath him. 

The desert hums, enveloping him in its warm arms. He squints up at the sun, at the shadow of Diéguez who blocks it out. "You want me to kill you?" the man says gruffly, taking his gun from his holster. 

Pete considers it for a few seconds - the racing pain in his body ended, the shameful plight of life extinguished. He closes his eyes and feels the sun on them. "If you like," he croaks. 

Diéguez remains silent for a few seconds, the shift of his boots in the dirt vibrating through Pete's skull. Pete hears him move, and steels his soul for weighing, blocking out the pain to simply enjoy the rolling caress of the sun rays. Then, there's hands covering his own, pressing something cold between his fingers. 

"Bye, Pete," Diéguez says finally, pulling away and heading to the car. A smile drifts over Pete's face as the car kicks a cloud of dust around him and the sound of the engine fades. 

A gentle breeze ruffles Pete's hair, and he wonders if it's the pull of the darkness that lingers at the sides of his vision. As he closes his eyes again, his eyelids dance with neon, the colours beating in time with his pulse. He can feel a rock pressing into his spine and shifts to avoid it, his head falling to the side.

Looking down at his hands, he sees the knife that they took from his pocket, the knife Patrick won for him. He flicks it open, wincing as the blade catches his wrist. With a pained cry, he pushes the knife through the plastic cord and lets his hands drift blissfully apart. 

He listens to the lungs of the desert, the singing of the cicadas around him. A scorpion scuttles over his outstretched arm, tickling the tender skin of his wrists. It sits on his palm for a few seconds, its spindly legs twitching, then skitters back into the undergrowth, the sand dimpling in its wake. He can hear the hum of honey bees, the barks of the vultures. The rush of a road in the distance. 

The more he listens, the more he thinks - it doesn't sound too far away, perhaps a few hundred metres. Turning his head in the opposite direction, he sees the crawl of cars beyond the ripple of heat waves. He could live.

He attempts to shift one of his legs, heaving the iron weight of it off the ground and bending his knee. It hurts unbearably, the pain from his stomach jarring his frame. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and growls through it, lifting his other leg and attempting to push himself up on his elbows. He looks towards the road. 

It's too far. He won't make it without passing out or dropping dead. The sand is so warm, so comfortable - it would be so much easier to close his eyes and let the land take him. But it was easy to fall into the cartel's trap. It was easy to place Patrick's life in someone else's hands. 

Pete pushes himself to his knees and steadies himself on the rocks, breathing deeply, his mind focussed only upon his own movement. He stands, falls, his palms scraping the stone and his knees stinging with the impact. Tears spring to his eyes as the pain in his belly burns brighter. 

Second time's the charm, though - he sways on trembling legs, his arms thrown about him as if to grab at the heavy air. He gains his balance, and places his right foot forward, taking a small but mighty step. The rest should be easy.

He begins to stumble across the land, careful not to trip on the ripples in the ground and the coarse shrubs that litter the landscape. The bloodflow from his abdomen has slowed a little, but still drips to the sand, leaving a trail of red behind him. The sun punishes him, scorching the back of his neck and sapping what little energy he has left. His head begins to wheel. 

The road snakes up ahead, the occasional car rushing past. Pete closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, attempting to slow the spinning in his brain. Then, he pushes forward once more. 

More than once, he nearly stumbles, his foot catching on a loose stone or slipping in the sand. His stomach shrieks every time, the harsh movements of his torso pulling the wounds this way and that. The lightness in his skull tugs him away from the world around him. 

Wrenching in breaths through gritted teeth, he looks up to see the road a hundred metres away, its surface shimmering with the illusion of water. He can reach it, he decides, shuffling his feet forward, his steps becoming smaller with each ebb of pain in his gut. The sun boils his brain, mangles his consciousness, and he begins to lose his balance more frequently, until finally, he falls, the sky tumbling around him. 

He floats for a few moments, his mind mushy, the pain beginning to abstract into something less tangible. There's a dull ache in his head where stones have caught him, his limbs sprawled awkwardly around him. The road is so close, yet he can't force his body to move, the dead weight of it slumped into the dirt. 

But with one, last, tremendous effort, he rolls onto his hands and knees, half circles of red collected beneath his nails and sand clinging to the cracked scabs in his knuckles. He begins to crawl, the ground unforgiving beneath him and red starting to drip from his mouth. Still, he puts one hand in front of the other, watching the sand roll away until finally, it turns to tarmac before his eyes.

He collapses on the roadside, arms outstretched. The road is empty, save for a red speck in the distance. It grows steadily larger. 

For the first time in his life, he prays, imploring any kind of higher power to show mercy, to grant him a sliver of luck in his sorry existence. The car approaches. Pete closes his eyes. 

The sound of an engine switching off has never been more relieving. 

"Hey, buddy, you okay?" a woman's voice says in English, coming closer with each word. "Can you hear me?" 

Pete nods slowly, twitching his fingers in the direction of the voice. A hand wraps around them. Another voice, a man's, sounds from further away, and they exchange words that Pete is hardly listening to. One of them is  _ hospital _ . Pete breathes a long sigh. 

"We're gonna lift you up, okay?" the woman says, and Pete nods, feeling hands wrap around his feet. They feed his body onto soft upholstery and he relaxes into it, stroking fuzzy fabric under his fingers. Then, he remembers something. 

"Wait -" he chokes, slitting his eyes open until he can see the woman's face. "Cellphone," he says, "please." 

He lets his eyes fall shut and hears scuffling from the front seat, until a cool rectangle is pushed into his blood-stained hands. His fingers shake as he dials the number and slips the phone to his ear. 

The car begins to move as the dialling tone disappears. "Policía Federal," a voice answers. 

He speaks fast, breathless. He gives them names, orders, coordinates. He tells them to be quick. 

He's barely finished talking before everything goes black.

-

He wakes to nothing but light. Voices blur together into a wall of impenetrable sound, his mind sluggish and hazy. 

There's something soft under his fingers and he grabs for it, the new sensation rushing through him like a drug. As he turns his head, there's softness against his cheek, too - perhaps it's a cloud. Perhaps this is heaven. 

The voices become sharper, more detached from one another, and he can make out different strings of Spanish in different tones. For once, he can't feel any pain - his body is floating, weightless, his brain absent. He's moving - or at least, the ceiling is, the tiles rushing away from him. 

When he slows to a stop, he lets his eyes fall shut once more. Someone pulls at his arm, but it's no use; it's turned to cement. He doesn't remember why. There's something on his face - perhaps it's an alien. He doesn't want it to lay eggs in him, so he tries to shake it from his mouth. A weight stops him. 

Someone says something he doesn't understand. He doesn't quite care. The fabric under his face is so soft, so inviting, so he turns his cheek into it and hums appreciatively. He's soon pulled back into sleep. 

-

"Sit up," the nurse says, fussing around with Pete's various tubes. Her Spanish thrums with something South American. Pete wants to ask, but she seems stern and he doesn't want to piss her off while she's poking at his insides. He sits up as best he can and she shoves a pillow behind him. 

His stomach is bound with bright white bandages - he can feel the pull of the staples underneath if he breathes in too sharply. His nose is useless - they've stuffed it full of packing and taped it into place. He's seen himself in the mirror - two black eyes isn't quite his style. It better not be crooked - he'll never show his face in public again. Not that he can, anyway. 

They've already questioned him. It'll be a long process, that much is clear, but he's not yet under arrest and he's got himself a lawyer who can do all the thinking for him. For now, he simply wants to rest. 

The day he was stabbed seems years ago. He remembers crawling through the sand, he remembers the blood. He remembers teetering on the edges of death before being wrenched back into consciousness, his body aching and his mind wheeling. The relief of complete safety is not one he’s often experienced. 

El Verraco was arrested. So was Da Costa. Diéguez is on the run, so is Arellano. Pete's told the police everything he can remember about their hideouts. Whatever happens, he's made a major dent in the cartel's infrastructure. He's a traitor, perhaps - yet the guilt has yet to hit him, the regret has yet to interrupt his sleep. He's out of the game. It only took him fifteen years. 

He's asked about Patrick. No-one seems to know. Pete's not sure if it's in the interests of Patrick's privacy or simply because Patrick's dead and they're cautious to tell him. Patrick may have betrayed him, but he was just doing a job, as Pete was just doing his. Patrick blew his cover so that Pete didn’t have to kill him. Pete owes Patrick his sanity. The thought of Patrick cold and unmoving sends a chill down Pete's spine. 

Dinner comes and goes - a bland omelette and some papaya, nothing too extreme for his healing stomach. He's bored, bored to his bruised bones, so be hobbles to the bathroom just for the sake of it, enjoying the change of scenery if nothing else. He takes a look out of the window while he's at it; Ángeles Tijuana Hospital is settled deep in the town, lush greenery littering the streets. Pete stares until he feels his stomach twinge, then stumbles back to his bed and dozes for the rest of the day. 

-

"Mr Wentz?" the nurse asks him the following morning, "I've looked up your friend - he's here. He's in orthopaedics," she says. Pete stares. 

"Wait - he's alive?" he asks, pushing himself up rapidly, much to the alarm of the nurse. 

"Careful, Mr. Wentz, you've still got a lot of recovering to do," she says, helping him sit up and plumping his pillows. "But - yes, he's alive. Visiting hours are between two and three - perhaps you can see him this afternoon." 

Pete nods emphatically, drumming his hands on his knees in anticipation. "Is he well? Is it looking good?" 

The nurse shakes her head. "I don't know. But you must look after yourself first, Mr. Wentz." 

Pete nods, grinning widely at her. There's a chance he may not hate Patrick after all. 

He's beginning to rethink this, however, when he's on his way to Patrick's ward and breathing hard. He's in slippers and a standard-issue dressing gown that's far too big for him, shuffling through the corridors like a pensioner heading to lunch. The concerned receptionist points him in the direction of a Mr. Vaughn and Pete heads for it, pausing only to catch his breath. If he chances a look at his reflection in the glass doors and fixes his hair, no-one notices.

Patrick’s the last bed on the corridor. Pete's expecting the worst - a skeleton of a man, a ruin, a shock - but instead, Patrick looks relatively well compared to the last time Pete saw him. His skin has regained some colour, his shoulder is strapped together and he lies sound asleep. 

Pete sits softly in the chair next to him, watching him as he breathes, steady and deep. He looks serene, only slight bruising across his cheek and a split lip. Pete's reluctant to disturb him - he doesn't think he's ever seen the man so at peace. 

"You can wake him ," a nurse says, "he's been waiting to see you." 

At that, Pete smiles, reaching out a hand and giving Patrick's good shoulder a gentle shake. "Hey, it's me," he says in English, "it's Pete. Wake up, Patrick."

Watching Patrick stir awake is like watching a baby animal opening its eyes for the first time. His face crumples and reforms, his eyes slitting open and sliding shut a few times before he seems to see Pete. He rubs a bandaged hand over his face, his nose wrinkling and his lips twitching, then gazes at Pete, recognition dawning on his face. 

"Pete," he says, his voice thick with sleep, "they said you were here." 

"Yep," Pete grins, "you're not dead." 

Patrick shakes his head. "No. You're not dead, either." 

"They did a pretty shitty job killing us off, didn't they," Pete replies, a swell of pride in his chest. He's finally picked a winning side. 

"Yeah," Patrick giggles, perhaps a little delirious from whatever medication he's on, "I'm glad you're not dead." 

"How you doing?" Pete asks, looking over Patrick's various injuries. There's a cast around his ankle as well as his shoulder. 

Patrick tries to sit up and Pete rushes to help him, propping his pillow up behind him and steadying Patrick with a hand on the back of his neck. Patrick flinches slightly at the contact - Pete lets go. 

"Shoulder's a bit - broken," he says, and Pete feels a sting of guilt in his chest. "Ankle's a bit broken too. I don't remember that one, though. Don't remember a lot, really," he says with a weak laugh. "I've talked to the - agent, person," he says airily, waving a hand, "she says I'm not going to prison." 

"That's good," Pete replies, "and hey - neither am I." 

Patrick's face creases into a frown. "But - you - you're - I told on you?" 

"No, I told on you first," Pete laughs, "I called the police. I guess I saved your life, cabrón." 

"You didn't have to do that," Patrick says softly, his eyes wide. "You - you gave up everything." 

"They cut me up and dumped me in the desert. They didn't make an ally of me," Pete spits, El Verraco's face sparking hatred in his sore gut. "And - I didn't want you to die." 

"Thank you," Patrick says. Pete instinctively reaches for Patrick's hand, but Patrick snatches it away. "Sorry - I - I don't know. The torture kind of - did something," he says, his speech jumbled. 

Pete nods, curling his hands in his lap. This nervous, cowering man is not the one he fell for. He gives Patrick a sad smile. 

"Pete," Patrick says, his face suddenly very serious. "Your nose looks ridiculous." 

-

From that point onwards, he visits Patrick every day he feels able, watching as Patrick becomes more lucid and returns to his disgruntled self. It's a fragile friendship - between them hangs the layers of difference, the clashing of two worlds, the knowledge that Patrick must, eventually, leave Mexico for good. 

Their relationship doesn't progress much beyond Pete tentatively reaching for Patrick's arm, or eye contact that lingers a few moments too long. Pete can feel it brewing, knows he could still trust Patrick again, one day, but Patrick is difficult to read, swinging between thanking Pete for saving his life and talking avidly about how much he'd like to go home. 

"I'm not built for heat," he says, gesturing to the slight sunburn across the back of his neck, "I'm built for rain." Pete wonders if he himself could adapt to rain - he fears he'd miss the sun. 

"Tell me about your daughter," Pete says, leaning forward in the chair. He can't picture Patrick as a father - but, evidently, neither can Patrick. 

"She puts up with me," he laughs, "she's - brilliant, though. She's got a temper like an earthquake. God, I miss her." 

"I bet she misses you too," Pete says. "Do - do you think you'll fly home, soon?" 

Patrick looks at Pete, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "Whenever they say I'm able, I suppose." 

Pete nods, wondering whether he should say something - but nothing could possibly make him stay, not even Pete. He reaches for Patrick's hand, and for once, he doesn't flinch away. His fingers wrap gently around Pete's, and Pete smiles, squeezing them lightly. 

"Ow," Patrick groans, wriggling his fingers. "Not so hard - they pulled my fingernails out." 

With a surge of horror, Pete loosens his grip and stares at Patrick's bandaged hand. "That's - fucking disgusting," Pete says, not entirely sure if he means the act or the fact that Patrick has no fingernails. "Does it hurt?" 

"Only when idiots squeeze them," Patrick smirks, and Pete scowls, muttering Spanish insults under his breath. 

"I saved your life, remember," Pete warns, "you owe me eternally." 

Patrick laughs at that, his eyes lighting and his lips spreading into a grin. Pete smiles just watching him. Then, his fingers reach for Pete's hand once again, his gaze meeting Pete's. 

"I'm sorry I lied to you," he says. 

Pete shrugs. "I'm sorry I shot you and threw you in the back of my car."

"Call it even?" 

Pete nods, laughs. 

-

"Mr. Vaughn?" the doctor says, "how you feel - uh, today?" A strong accent throbs through her words, and Patrick smiles weakly. 

"Estoy bien," he says, and her eyes light at his feeble Spanish. He likes her - they make a good team, putting together their fragments of language. 

"You are - mend?" she tries, gesturing to his shoulder. "Not so bad. It get - gets - better." He knows well enough what she means - his shoulder has been reset, the burn is healing very slowly. He was lucky - the bullet missed any vital organs, shattering his clavicle and part of his humerus but leaving him relatively unscathed. His shooting days are behind him - they won’t be missed.

He doesn't remember much after his conversation with Pete. He felt sick, and scared - that's about where his memories end. Somehow, his ankle got broken, and he has no fingernails on his left hand; these remain a mystery. He's alive, that's all that matters. 

"Visitors," the doctor says as she pulls back the curtain around his bed. Behind it stands Special Agent Rivera. He rubs at his eyes - he's already told her everything. 

"Vaughn," Rivera says curtly, lending him a small nod. She sits beside the bed, her back straight and her legs crossed. Patrick pulls the blanket over himself a little further. "How do you feel?" 

"Alright," he says warily. His wounds are healing and the painkillers he's moved on to aren't quite as madness-inducing. "Better." 

"So - after everything you've told us, and the progress we've made into dismantling the cartel, we've decided to allow you to keep two-point-four million of your promised salary. Is that satisfactory?" 

Patrick nearly laughs. He's grateful to have emerged with his life, let alone his pay. He nods, thanks her. 

"Now that you're fit enough to fly, you may go home. MI6 will not be in contact - we've given them everything they need. Oh - we have also recovered your gun. Would you like us to send it back with you?" 

"No," Patrick says. "Keep it. Destroy it. I don't care. " 

Rivera raises an eyebrow but makes no comment. "Thank you for your service, Vaughn. Have a pleasant trip home." 

With that, she leaves. It’s over. Patrick can't quite believe it - he's out of the game. He can go and see Lottie, his mother, his friends. He can finally start to rebuild the life he lost with Will. 

Pete still visits nearly every day. He looks better, stronger, the gauze gone from his nose and his wounds healing. Patrick still likes him, still feels a flutter in his chest whenever he makes Pete laugh. He chides himself on becoming so attached - the first person he falls for after Will, and they're a member of a renowned drug cartel. He can almost hear his mother's scolding.

Except, Pete isn't, not anymore. Pete's out of the game too. Patrick wishes him a world of happiness - he’ll miss him, that’s for sure. 

It's with a heavy heart that Patrick makes the journey to Pete's bedside, limping on a crutch and wincing as his broken ankle aches. 

"Hey," Pete says, sitting up. His eyes light, and Patrick feels a shot of sadness. "What's up? Sit down, man." 

Patrick does so, grateful to take the weight off his ankle. "I - I've been cleared to fly," he blurts. 

Pete nods. He must have known it was coming. "That's great," he says, but there's no life behind it. "When do you leave?" 

"Tomorrow," Patrick says, and the shock in Pete's eyes hurts. "Early. So - this is kind of - goodbye, I guess." 

Pete doesn't look at him. Patrick wonders whether he should take Pete's hand, or if that would just make matters worse. Instead, he twitches awkwardly in his seat. "You know," Pete says, throwing a curious glance towards Patrick. "The police said it wasn't safe for me to stay in Mexico. I was gonna go to Canada or someplace but - I could, maybe, go to London, or whatever." 

Patrick sits up a little. "Really? Would you - want that?" 

Shrugging, Pete smiles a little bit. "I dunno. Might be cool," he says. "Like - I wouldn't, y'know,  _ expect  _ anything from you, just - I dunno. It's an option." 

"Well - you have my email address," Patrick says. "So - if you do come to London, and you need a - friend, then I'll be there." 

Pete grins. "We'll see," he says, his eyes glowing.

"We'll see," Patrick replies. 

Patrick leaves early the next morning.

-

England is a relief. 

To finally hear a language he understands, to be asked a question and answer it without any flustered fumbling, to step out of the airport and feel chilled wind on his skin is like a resurrection. The taxi rank is crowded with hurrying families and babbling students - for a moment, he stops and listens to it all, the familiar bored woman on the intercom, the patter of rain on slick roads. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend it was all just a dream. 

But his ankle aches and his shoulder whines and there's still a scorch of sunburn across his neck - what happened in Mexico did not stay there. What happened in Mexico will stay with him for the rest of his life. 

Yet, the cab ride is bliss. He wears jeans and a button-up, and for once he isn’t sweating under them. His shoulder is held in an immobiliser and his ankle is just strong enough to walk on with the aid of a crutch. The landscape whips past, green fields and grey streets and a greyer sky. He opens the window just to feel the cold autumn air on his face.

When the driver pulls up to his driveway, he takes a few seconds to stare out of the window at the sad little terraced house. He thinks of being left all alone. He's seen far too much of himself recently.

"On second thoughts - could you drive me ten minutes up the road?" he asks, "I'll pay the difference." 

The driver nods, moving off and cruising along the quiet suburbs on Patrick's directions. 

His mother's house is bland from the outside, and yet he feels the throb of tears behind his eyes as he gazes at it. He can see the photograph she has of Lottie placed just above the fireplace, he can see the ratty old stool he sits on every Christmas and a pair of familiar slippers resting on top of it. He can barely stumble out of the car fast enough. 

He pays the driver handsomely and limps towards the front door, dragging his suitcase behind him, his heart beginning to race with nerves. He would not be surprised if the first thing she did was slap him. He rings the doorbell, holding his breath. 

"...sorry, Sandy, I've just got to answer the -" 

The door opens. His mother stares. 

"Hey, mum," he says sheepishly. She puts the phone slowly back to her ear. 

"Sandy, I have to go." She hangs up. 

"Mum, I -" 

"You  _ stupid, stupid boy _ !" she cries, and in the same instant, she throws herself at him, gathering him up in her arms and hugging him tight. He wraps his good arm around her and buries is nose in her jumper, the smell of home and love and comfort bringing tears to his eyes. 

"I'm so sorry," he says, heat rushing to his face as he begins to cry, "I - I -"

"Where have you  _ been _ ?! What on earth has happened to you?!" She pulls back to look at him, his ankle and shoulder still wrapped up and a crutch hanging from his forearm. He must be quite a sorry sight. 

He can do nothing but let out everything that's been building over the past few months. She brings him to her again, cradling him as he cries, eventually guiding him over the threshold and sitting him down on the sofa. He sinks into it gratefully, breathing in the familiar smell it kicks up. 

"Come here, baby," she cooes, sitting close and bringing his head to her shoulder. "Tell me." 

He takes a few moments of sniffing before he gets himself together, looking around at the room and basking in its homeliness. "They gave me a job," he says quietly. "MI6. They said if I didn't go, they'd arrest me. So - that's why I had to leave." 

His mum doesn't say anything. He suspects she's disappointed in him, but that's okay. He deserves it - he's made a vow to change it. "What were you doing in Mexico, sweetie? Who hurt you?" 

Patrick sits up a little so he can see her more clearly. "Mum - have you heard about - about - that drug lord that got killed?" 

She nods. "It's been all over the news, he was shot dead through a car window." 

Patrick looks at her, pursing his lips. It takes her a moment to realise - when she does, she claps a hand over her mouth. 

"God - Patrick," she says, "oh, sweetie." 

"I'm sorry, mum," he says, curling his fingers into her jumper. 

"And they did this to you?" she asks, tapping his shoulder gently. 

He nods. "They found me out. They didn’t react well.”

Her sympathy is incomplete yet enough - she strokes her fingers through his hair and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. "But you're safe now?" 

"Yeah," he says. It feels wonderful to hear. "Yeah, I'm safe. And I'm never going back to it. I'm gonna get a real job, mum, I'm gonna be there for Lottie, I'm so sorry I've been so shit," he continues, the tears still dribbling down his face. "I'm gonna be better, I promise." 

"You keep that promise, Patrick Stump," she tells him, and he's never been so glad to hear the name Stump. Vaughn is dead and buried. Patrick will spit on his grave. 

"Where is she?" he asks, trying to think what day it is. His dad brain has yet to restart. 

"Karate," his mum says, "Bella's mum is dropping her off. She should be home soon." 

"How's she been? How have  _ you  _ been?" Patrick asks, looking up into his mother's tearful eyes. She shrugs gently, sighing a little. 

"She misses you. We thought you were dead, Patrick. We thought you weren't coming back. It's not been easy," she says, her fingers still stroking through Patrick's hair. 

"I'm sorry," he mumbles again, but she waves it away. 

"No more apologies," she says, "just make it right.”

He nods, resting his head on her shoulder and closing his eyes. The nightmare is over. 

An engine sounds from the road outside, and his mother stirs. “I think that's them now," she says, glancing out of the window to watch a car pulling into the drive. Patrick makes to stand, but she pushes him back in his place. "I'll get it." 

He watches his mother make her way across the lounge and down the hall. He can't see the door from here, but he can hear her already. 

"Bella asked if I can come round on Wednesday, can I?" she yells, the clunk of shoes echoing around the hall. 

"We'll see, sweetie," his mother tells her. He hears her little feet scampering towards him. "But look who's here..." 

His daughter suddenly appears in the doorway, her hair swinging behind her as she stops dead. She's grown, her hair's grown, her face is different, or perhaps it's just the same and Patrick's forgotten. He puts a big smile on his face and tries not to start crying all over again. 

First she's motionless, then she's bullet-fast. "Daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy!" she shrieks, barrelling towards him and flinging herself into his lap, her little arms wrapping around his neck. He laughs joyously, squeezing her tight until she squirms in his grasp. 

"Where did you go?" she asks, sitting back in his lap and holding onto one of his ears. "I'm a whole 'nother age! I'm -" she counts her fingers, then shows them to Patrick. "Five!" 

"Gosh, you're getting so big!" Patrick grins, "soon you'll be too big to sit on daddy's lap!" 

"Nonsense," his mother says, perching beside them, "even daddy isn't too big to sit on grandma's lap." 

Lottie giggles, her little face lighting up. "What happened to your arm?" she asks, poking at the sling. 

"Daddy had a bit of an accident," he says, "but he's getting better. You've just got to be a bit gentle with him." 

"Why is your hand weird?" she asks, poking at the exposed nail-beds on his left hand. He winces, his fingers curling up like a spider. 

"Another accident," he says, letting his mother take his hand and glare at him in horror. "They just - fell off." 

"Did you give them to the tooth fairy?" she asks, and Patrick snorts. 

"Tooth fairies specialise mostly in teeth, I believe," Patrick observes, "but I'm no expert."

"But, but!" Lottie shouts, and Patrick misses silence already, "Mrs. Winters said that - that - teeth and fingers - fingernails are made of the same thing and  _ you  _ said fairies use the teeth to build their castles so fairies must like fingernails too!" 

"Okay, alright," Patrick concedes, "you're right, I missed an opportunity." 

She presses his nose and then pecks him on the tip of it, squirming away when he tries to return the favour. "Are we going home?" 

"Not yet," his mother supplies, "daddy's going to stay here with us for a few days." 

Patrick smiles at her, mouthing a  _ thank you _ , then looks at Lottie. "I love you, sweetie. You know that, right?" 

She nods absently, then collapses into him as if her strings were cut. "Love you too." 

He cuddles her tight, love overwhelming him once more. His tears fall into her hair, and he kisses them away gently. She looks up at him, touching her hand to the wetness underneath his eyes and staring at her fingers. "Why are you crying? Is it papa?" 

"No, sweetie," he says, holding her little hand in his own, "I'm not sad, I'm happy because I'm home." 

"I'm happy you're home," she says. "Will you stay?" 

"Yes," Patrick says, and for once, he's not lying. "I'm never ever  _ ever  _ going to leave you again." 

"Never ever ever? You promise?" 

"I promise," he says, extending his little finger until she shakes it. "I've missed you so much, sweetie." He hadn't realised quite how much until he looked at her toothy little smile. 

Lottie sighs happily and curls her fingers into his t-shirt. "Does this mean we can make cakes now?" 

-

When Pete arrives at Heathrow airport, he wonders if perhaps a leopard print vest wasn't such a good idea. England is exactly as Patrick described it - dull, wet and grey. Still, he dons his neon sunglasses and springs through the double doors, staring at his sandal-clad feet and their first taste of European ground. His bare toes do not appreciate puddles. 

"Hey!" he grins at the cab driver, the logo from Patrick's email emblazoned on the side of the car. "How're you doing?" 

"Fine," the driver says, looking vaguely irritated, but reluctantly returning the question. 

"I'm good," Pete says, "do you want a chocolate button? I got a tonne from the duty-free, they're fuckin' awesome, man." He trails off as the man loads his suitcase wordlessly. 

He's not sure if he's allowed to eat in the cab, but he sneaks a button every so often anyway. The driver barely makes eye-contact as they pull away - Pete decides this won't do at all. "So - what's your favourite movie?" he asks. 

"The Silence of the Lambs," the driver responds. 

"Cool. Why?" he presses. By the end of the journey he's learnt that the driver's name is Ian, he has two daughters, he plays tennis at the weekends and he makes a mean macaroni cheese. 

"Here we are then, mate," Ian says as they arrive outside a small house with a lush lawn outside and a bashed up Range Rover sitting in the drive. "Nice talking to you." 

"My pleasure," he grins, hopping out of the car and waiting as Ian takes his case from the trunk. "I hope you win on Sunday."

"So do I," he says, nodding his head. 

"You can show that bastard," Pete tells him, pulling his case up onto the kerb. "Bye!" He waves as the cab disappears, then turns towards the house and skips up to the doorstep, pressing his finger into the doorbell.

He hears a scuffle of movement from inside, and the giggle of a young girl. "Wait -  _ wait _ , it's for daddy, just -" 

The door opens and a small child stands in front of him, looking up at him with her big brown eyes. "Uh - hi," he says, extending a hand, "I'm Pete." 

Patrick suddenly stumbles into view behind the girl, out of breath and flustered. Pete had forgotten how adorable he is. The girl - Lottie, Pete thinks he remembers Patrick saying - shakes his hand before scampering behind her father's legs and peeking out at him. 

"Hi," Patrick smiles, shuffling towards Pete as best he can with a child attached to him. He looks well, perhaps better than Pete's ever seen him - he walks with a slight limp and his shoulder is still wrapped in a brace, but he's moving his right arm freely as he ushers Pete into a hug. 

Pete squeezes him tight, feeling his warmth, smelling his distantly familiar smell. It's been months - the lawsuit is ongoing, but Pete's finally free. As he pulls away, he wonders if he should peck Patrick on the cheek - but he refrains. Lottie watches with curious eyes - he's not sure how much she knows. After all, he’s only staying with Patrick until his apartment is secured. Patrick smiles gently, patting him on the shoulder. 

"Please, come in. We're making cakes," he says, and Pete can tell because Patrick's got flour all over his t-shirt. 

" _ Fairy _ cakes," Lottie says, “with sprinkles!” She skitters back down the hall as Pete takes his shoes off and Patrick takes his case. 

"How are you?" Patrick asks quietly as Lottie disappears. "No complications?" 

Pete pats his stomach. "Nope. Stitches have dissolved and you can barely see a scar." His nose is a little crooked, but he’s leaning into it. He’s rugged, now. 

"You look great," he says, and Pete smiles.

"So do you." 

"Pete! Look," Lottie says, holding out an un-iced cake. "What colour should it be?" 

"Um," Pete says, following her into the kitchen. It's a bombsite of icing and cake batter. Patrick looks sheepish, a blob of icing on his forehead. If anything, it makes him more attractive. "What colours have you got?" 

"All of them," Lottie says, gesturing to a plethora of icing bowls. 

"Well, then use all of them." 

Lottie's eyes light. "A rainbow cake!" she shouts, “like the one from your class!” Patrick hurries to help her with the spoons, steadying her on the chair she's stood upon. She immediately dips her finger into the icing and sticks it in her mouth. "Taste it, daddy!" 

Reluctantly, Patrick licks some icing off the blue-coated finger Lottie holds in front of his face. "Lovely," he says, and Lottie proceeds to place a smudge of blue on the end of his nose. Pete laughs - he's beginning to realise that this man is entirely different from the one he met in Mexico. He's a father, and a doting one, too. Pete wants to know him, wants to see inside him. 

Their arms touch as they ice the cakes - their eyes catch, shy smiles hidden in conversation. It feels like something new. 

-

Later that evening, Lottie lays asleep on Patrick's chest, her hair tickling his chin and her hands fisted in the neck of his pyjamas. They're woollen and printed with sheep - Patrick figured that if Pete is to get to know the real thing, he must learn the hard way, sheep and all. Pete himself is dressed in a tank top with the word BEACH printed in bright yellow - it could not contrast more with the cosy British weather and the hot chocolate and fairy cakes balanced on the coffee table. Patrick loves it.

Pete, too, seems close to sleep, his eyes drooping as the TV flashes with some trashy movie, his head sloping towards the back of the couch. He seems different, happier, freer. Patrick supposes the same is true of himself. Will would’ve been proud. 

The mental recovery has perhaps been the longest process - he still can't stomach a shower, can't wash his own face without a flash of panic, a reminder of how it felt to be drowned alive. He's becoming more used to baths - the breakdowns are less frequent now, the tears don't flow quite so readily. His mum helps, Louisa helps. Slowly but surely, he's healing.

Patrick passes Pete a fairy cake, a bright orange one, taking a green one for himself. Each of them are coated in a rainbow of sprinkles. Before Pete takes a bite, he throws a curious glance towards Patrick. 

Pete's face hovers close to his own - this time, Patrick knows what he wants. Pete understands the horrors, the guilt, the heartbreak that is and always will be a part of Patrick, and has accepted Patrick all the same. For once, Patrick is fully bared, his life laid stark in front of Pete, his secrets aired, alleviated. 

He presses a kiss to Pete's lips, gentle and soft. Pete cups his face, strokes his cheek, fits his mouth to Patrick's. When they break apart, they share a tentative smile, a hesitant happiness. It's careful, it's cautious, but it's there. 

The cake tastes wonderful. 

_ ~fin~ _

  
  
  
  



End file.
